Accordingly, after class I went to the library. Emily the librarian unlocked the Special Collections room and the book cabinet and left me to my research. It took me about fifteen minutes to find the passage I had seen:
“When I arose from my sickbed I found that the housekeeper had taken it upon herself to decant the wine. From ignorance she did not use a wine-strainer with fine cambric in it, and some bits of crust and cork got into it. I was reproved for (as it seemed) my carelessness, but did not betray the housekeeper, for which she earnestly thanked me later.”
That was good enough for me to give an answer about it to Sheila. I put the book back and headed toward the door to tell Emily she could lock up again. I paused at the Bradstreet manuscript on my way out to read it one more time. For some reason it looked different to me, and I thought it must be the lighting. I glanced up at the ceiling, but the lights were all on, and seemed as bright as usual. I looked at the poem again. In a moment I saw what was different. The water stains were gone.
Did they get it cleaned? I wondered. I looked closely at it. I thought the margins might be a little wider than they had been before.
I went out of the room and found the librarian.
“Emily, did the library do something with the Bradstreet manuscript?” I said.
“What do you mean? It’s still there. I saw it when I unlocked for you,” she said.
“I know, but it’s changed,” I said. “The water stains that were along one side are gone. And I think the margins on the sides of the writing are larger than they were.”
She came with me into the Special Collections room and looked at the manuscript.
“I think you’re right. This isn’t the same manuscript. It’s a forgery.” She could hardly have sounded more horror-struck. “How did it get in here? And where’s the real manuscript?”
“It must have been stolen,” I said. “And someone replaced it with this so it wouldn’t be noticed.”
“Oh no,” she breathed. I knew how she felt. She was one of the people responsible for the document.
“You need to call the police,” I said. “It’s a valuable item.”
The police. I felt a little sick to my stomach. I thought I was finished with making statements to the police. And Todd. Well, hopefully they would send someone else. The police department had more than one detective.
I stood by while Emily made the call.
“They want whoever discovered it to stay here until they get here,” she said after she hung up. “I hope that’s ok.”
“Yes, I can stick around. I guess I should sit here and grade some rough drafts while I’m waiting.” I opened my laptop and started reading through the papers. I read through them with only half my brain engaged. The other half of my brain kept praying, “Dear Lord, please let them send Detective Ortega.”
“Are you Emily Watkins? I’m Detective Mason with the Wilkester Police Department.”
I closed my eyes and groaned inwardly. Once more into the breach, I thought. With a sigh I closed my laptop and put it into my bag.
“I need to speak to whoever discovered the theft,” said Todd. Emily nodded toward me as I was coming over to the front desk.
I cleared my throat. “That would be me, Detective Mason.”
There was a flicker of surprise on his face, but all he said was, “Ah, Miss Peters. How nice to see you again. Do you think you could show me where the incident occurred?”
The three of us trooped back to the Special Collections room. I pointed to the glass case.
“That is where the manuscript was. There’s a manuscript there right now, but it’s not the same one.”
“How did you know this one was different?”
“A few things,” I said. “The biggest is the water stains—I mean the lack of water stains. The original had a pattern of water stains down the right side of it, kind of light, but you could definitely see them. Also, I think the margins are different—wider than they were on the other document.”
“And the writing?”
“It looks pretty much the same, actually. Whoever made this copy was very, very good at writing like people did in the sixteen hundreds.”
“Is anything else missing?”
“Oh, I have no idea,” said Emily. “I never thought to check. I can get the list of books that should be here…” she paused.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Well, if any of them are replaced with forgeries, I don’t think I will be able to tell. I don’t know the books inside and out, physically—I haven’t spent that much time studying them. In fact, I’m not sure I would have even noticed the difference in the Bradstreet manuscript if Professor Peters hadn’t pointed it out. I mean, after she said something I remembered that there were some water stains on the manuscript, but I probably wouldn’t have thought about it on my own.”
“So,” said Todd, making a note of what she had said, “You don’t know when the real manuscript was replaced with the forgery?”
Emily shook her head.
“I know the real one was here a few weeks ago. Remember when I came with a student to the Special Collections room to see Modern Chivalry?” I asked Emily.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Emily.
“Do you remember exactly when that was?” asked Todd.
I tried to think. “It was a few days after the—the murder.”
Todd wrote that down. “How hard would it be for someone to get in that room to replace the manuscript?”
“Well, we keep it locked, and of course the building has an alarm at night.”
“And the glass case has a lock as well, I see. Are all the keys on the same key ring?”
Emily nodded. “Is that bad?”
“Not necessarily. Where do you keep the keys?”
“In the desk drawer—the front desk, where we check out books.”
“Could anyone get at them?”
Emily looked like she was wilting. “Well, I guess they could. But it would be kind of hard. I mean, that’s the desk that the two senior librarians and the assistants use. But only the senior librarians are allowed to use those keys and let people into the room. And there has to be either a professor or a librarian present with anyone going into the room. And the desk where the keys are—it’s very visible. When the library is open there’s always someone working there, except for maybe just a second, going to check something. It would be hard for someone to sneak into the desk and get them without being noticed.”
“I see. Well, I’m going to need to see your records of who has been in this room in the last five weeks.”
“Oh dear,” said a dismayed Emily. “I’m afraid we don’t write down who goes in. I can tell you everyone I remember, but you’ll have to ask the other library staff, too.”
“All right.” He seemed so much more somber than usual, and I felt like we had disappointed him. He finished writing and closed his notebook. “We’ll have to lock up the room and I’ll send a team to do the usual sweep.” He turned to Emily. “It would be good if you got the list of books now and made sure nothing else is missing.”
“Sure. But what if one of them is a forgery? I probably won’t know.”
“Would you be able to tell, Miss Peters?” he said.
“If it was a badly done forgery, I would. If it was a very, very clever one you’d need to get a lab to verify things. But I find it hard to believe someone would try to forge one of those books. They aren’t particularly valuable, and the time and effort it would take to forge a whole book would be considerable. One sheet of paper like the Bradstreet poem is possible, but a whole book would be only worth doing if it was extremely precious—and these aren’t.”
“I suspect you’re right,” said Todd. “Would you be free now to just glance through them?”
“What about fingerprints?”
“You’ve already been in here, probably several times during the year, correct? So your fingerprints are probably on the cabinet and books
anyway. Like you said, I doubt those books were tampered with. Just don’t touch the glass case.” He paused. “Did you touch the case today?”
“I don’t remember,” I said. “I might have. I don’t know.” I felt guilty. In our previous meetings, Todd had seemed to go out of his way to be reassuring. Today he just seemed detached and maybe a little cold. No one could have called him rude, but I could tell there was a difference.
He hung around while Emily and I checked the books against her list and I duly flipped through each one. They were all there and all looked genuine.
“Is that all?” said Emily
“It is for now. I need to get the word out on this one—notify dealers in manuscripts and old books, in case the thief tries to sell it. I hope it’s not too late. We don’t know when it was stolen, but it might have been weeks ago.”
“Surely anyone in the book trade would recognize it for what it is—and even if they didn’t they could certainly trace who bought it.”
“If they sold it through official channels, yes. But if the thief sold it to a private collector…” Todd’s voice trailed off.
“I see,” I said. “But if they did that, what difference would it make if it was newly stolen or not?”
“Well, we have informants that could find out if there is any chatter about it in the underground collectors’ world.”
“It sounds very CIA,” I said. I thought Todd smiled faintly, but he said nothing.
“I’d better get back to work,” said Emily. “I’ll get the other librarian to write down everyone they can remember going into the room in the last few weeks, and I’ll do it, too.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Todd. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow, and my team should be here in the morning to see if they can discover anything from the room and case itself.” He gave Emily his card. “Please let me know if you remember anything that might be helpful. Otherwise I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He turned to me. “I may have a few questions for you as the investigation progresses, but for now you’re free to go. Thanks for your help.” He shook my hand, and I thought he held it a fraction of a moment longer than he needed to. It might have been my imagination.
Kim called as soon as I got home.
“Hi Katrina, how are you?”
I made a quick decision not to tell her about the manuscript theft right away. I didn’t want her to start worrying about this sudden crime wave in Wilkester.
“I’m fine. How are you guys?”
“Busy. I meant to call you yesterday but it was such a crazy day and this is the first moment I’ve had to talk.”
“What’s up?”
“I need information from you.”
“About what?”
“The dinner two nights ago.” She heard me snort and went on rapidly. “I’m not trying to be pushy! In fact, I made up my mind not to bring it up unless you did. But I can’t bear it any longer. I promise not to badger you about it, but I just have to know what you think of Jason.”
“I’m shocked you were able to make it this long without interrogating me. No, really! I am pleasantly surprised. You have amazing self-control.”
“I’m working on it. But I have none left now. Spill it.”
“Well…” I sighed. “I don’t know what to think. He’s a nice guy. Not repulsive or anything. But I didn’t feel any sparks between us—although I suppose it would be nearly impossible for that to happen at such an awkward gathering.”
“Awkward? Really?”
“Not you guys. But I was self-conscious and he might have been too, and you can’t make a valid judgement of someone when you’re distracted like that.”
“Fair enough,” said Kim. “But he’s not a definite no, right?”
“I suppose not.”
“Good. I won’t say another word about it unless he makes a move.”
“Thanks. Oh, and Kim, you want me to take Ben and Mia out for a McDonald’s run?”
“That would be great! They’ve been struggling this week and we’re all a little weary. I won’t tell them beforehand in case they get too excited, but just let me know what is a good time for you.”
“How about tonight? I’ll pick them up at five o’clock and take them to dinner.”
“Fantastic! Thanks so much.”
We said our goodbyes and hung up. I’d started taking the Coles’ foster kids for a McDonald’s run occasionally back when they first started fostering. It gave the parents (and their biological offspring) a break from walking on eggshells around the traumatized children and a chance to do things together without the foster kids being jealous. And it made the kids feel special and loved by someone outside of their foster family. I’d had to be approved as someone who could babysit foster kids, but it was worth it.
I showed up at five o’clock and announced that I was going to McDonald’s for dinner and needed two kids to come with me. Mia and Ben practically ran me over in their eagerness to get to my car. It took a few minutes to transfer car seats and boosters to my vehicle, and I thought that it might not be too long before I needed to buy car seats for my own foster kids. If I didn’t go to Papua New Guinea. Or marry Jason.
Watch it, I told myself. Don’t start thinking like that.
I buckled the kids into their seats and zipped down the road toward Tacoma. Of course Wilkester has its own McDonald’s—in fact, there are two—but driving to Tacoma makes the experience last longer. I put in my CD of kids Scripture songs, and we sang our way into the big city. When Mia had arrived at the Coles’ her vocabulary seemed to consist mostly of expletives, the legacy from her former environment. And here she was, singing at the top of her lungs:
“The Lord has done
Great things for us,
We are glad
We are glad, glad, glad
Oh, oh, oh
The Lord has done
Great things for us,
We are glad.”
Her childish little voice earnestly singing the Oh, oh, oh, in the middle was so stinkin’ cute I could hardly stand it. It was sweet to think about the contrast between the life of abuse and neglect both kids had come from and the life they had now. It was not perfect, but they were in a place of life and hope. The Lord had indeed done great things for them. I was so grateful to be part of it even in a very small way.
Both kids wanted to eat inside the restaurant instead of going through the drive-through. Unfortunately, when we got inside we found that the line was pretty long. I suggested we go back to the car and order in the drive-through, but they both insisted that they would rather stand in line.
Before we were halfway through our line, Mia started trying to run around the restaurant. I picked her up and held her, singing silly songs and bouncing her along with them to distract her. It worked, but by the time we got to the front of the line, I thought my arms would fall off. She was a petite little thing, but thirty-five pounds of squirming five-year-old is more than I am used to carrying. The length of the wait had given both kids enough time to change their minds about their order three times apiece, but in the end they both wanted a kids’ meal with chicken nuggets.
“I want a Coke to drink!” said Ben.
“No, your mom says only juice, remember?” I used my best loving-Auntie voice.
“Coke!” echoed Mia.
I went ahead and ordered the juice. As I paid for the meals, I saw Mia’s lip tremble.
“Hey,” I said brightly, “Why don’t the two of you pick out where you want to sit!”
“I choose!” shouted Ben and ran off with Mia yelling “Noooooo!” right behind him.
I grabbed our tray of food and pursued them as quickly as I could. Ben landed at a table next to the giant plate-glass window. There was an empty table next to his, and Mia seated herself there, looking very pleased with herself. I prayed the restaurant wouldn’t fill up any more; I could imagine the dirty looks we would get if someone needed a seat and there was Mia taking up a whole table by herself. I knew that trying to mo
ve her right now would set off a tantrum. The excitement of being out with Aunt Katrina was proving to be too much for them to handle.
Ben snatched at his meal box and opened it to get the toy out. It was a little plastic figure of Zed, the cartoon character from a recent movie. Mia plunged into her box and pulled out a little spaceship from the same movie.
“Ok, now, let’s eat,” I said. “I’ll say grace.” I bowed my head and said a short prayer of thanks, knowing that anything longer than a sentence would be too much for their diminished self-control.
Ben ate a couple of nuggets and then noticed his drink.
“I wanted Coke,” he pouted.
“Juice is good,” I said as cheerfully as I could. He steadily ate French fries for a few minutes but kept looking over at Mia’s toy. Mia had stopped eating completely and was zooming her little spaceship around.
“Let’s eat, Mia,” I said. “See if you can make those nuggets disappear!”
She condescended to eat one and went back to playing.
“How come she got that one and I didn’t?” was Ben’s next comment.
“I don’t know. They just put different ones in your boxes.”
Ben crossed his arms and kicked the table leg. “I don’t want Zed. I want the spaceship!”
“It’s a great toy!” I enthused. “Lots of kids would like it.”
“It’s not fair!” he said more loudly. “Why did I get Zed?”
“Listen,” I said, lowering my voice in hopes that it would prompt him to lower his, too, “God is in charge of everything—every single little thing—and He picked that toy out for you!” Practical theology for kids, that’s what it was. Ben was not impressed.
“I don’t want it!” he yelled. He picked up Zed, marched over to the trash can, and threw the toy in.
“Ok, we need to get going,” I said. I’ve seen the wind-up to Ben’s tantrums more than once and that’s exactly where this was headed. The only thing I could do was make sure the good patrons of McDonald’s were not subjected to a front-row view of it. I got as much food as I could back into the boxes (my own burger had been hardly touched) and tried to comfort Mia who was now wailing, “But I want to eat here!”
Brought to Book Page 12