“So, maybe Fuller made the whole thing up.”
Noah shook his head gently. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve been reading his letters for the past three and a half years. He’s one of the good guys. Get this—he wrote home about a horse that got shot in a random skirmish. The horse was screaming, and nobody was doing anything about it, so Eli had to put it down. I could hardly read the words, because they were smudged so badly.” Noah stopped talking, and looked intently at the wall above my left shoulder.
“Smudged?”
He nodded. “By his tears. He was a gentle soul—he couldn’t stand seeing an animal in pain. His last letter was heartbreaking. It took me an entire week to get through it, and that was just the narrative, not the code. I kept hoping he would survive the battle, even when I knew that he didn’t.” He gave me a sheepish look. “That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
I gave him an encouraging smile. “Not at all. You’ve obviously made a connection with poor Eli.”
“Yeah. So I really want his account to be fact, not invention. As a historian, it’s my job to ferret out the facts and discard the fabrications, no matter how compelling those fabrications might be.” He sighed again. “I’m worried that my fondness for Eli Fuller might be clouding my judgment.”
“Well, what did Professor Burbridge think?” I couldn’t imagine him feeling a fondness for the object of his research.
Noah smiled slightly. “Burbridge was eager to believe Fuller’s story. He loved the idea of exposing the town hero as a traitor. He was a dedicated historian, but I believe he was ready to publicly accuse the heroic Major Compton of treason.”
A public accusation! I choked on my coffee. The day that he died, Professor Burbridge had engaged in a vocal disagreement with Ruth and possibly Priscilla. He had stormed out of the room shouting, “I will not be silenced.” Had he just laid out his theory to them? Had he said to Ruth Ellis’s face, “Your esteemed ancestor was a cowardly traitor, and I’m going to publish his story for all the world to read”? Had she tried to silence him? I set my cup down with trembling fingers. Whatever else I didn’t know, it was clear to me that Professor Burbridge was permanently silent. Only one person could tell that damning story now.
I regarded the earnest grad student sitting across from me. His right forefinger was stained with ink, like a true academic. His dusky red T-shirt proclaimed, “I’m a historian. Don’t make me repeat myself.” His black horn-rimmed glasses shielded eyes moist from emotion. He had lost his beloved mentor, and held that man’s life’s work in his hands.
Suddenly I was afraid. Whoever killed Professor Burbridge had come here to the history department to ransack his office. Were they trying to suppress his research? Did they know that Noah could divulge the whole story? Was Noah in danger?
I gripped his forearm. “Noah, have you had any threats made against you, or any weird things happening to you?”
He screwed up his face in thought. “I have been getting a lot of phone calls, where someone calls and then hangs up without saying anything.”
“When did these calls start? How many is ‘a lot’? Do they ever say anything at all?”
He stared at me, perplexed. “I got the first one a couple days ago. It might have been after Burbridge died—I don’t know. I didn’t think much of it. I’ve got some friends who like to play practical jokes. There have been four more calls since then.”
My heart was racing by now. “Did you tell the police?”
He shook his head. “Do you think I should?”
I nodded. “You need to take this seriously. This research could be a bombshell, as you say. I’m afraid that someone wanted to silence the professor so his research would never come to light. But you know everything Professor Burbridge knew. What if the murderer is after you as well?”
“Wow.” He stared at me, stunned. “That never occurred to me. Wow.” He picked up his almost empty cup and took a sip. “I guess I could call—”
His words were cut off by the sound of his phone ringing. He pulled it out of his pocket and stared at it fearfully. Then he swiped the screen to answer and handed the phone to me without a word.
I held the phone up to my ear. I could hear a faint whooshing sound in the background, and the soft, unmistakable sound of someone breathing. It wasn’t heavy breathing or threatening in any way, but it chilled me nonetheless. Then the call disconnected.
“Were the other calls like that one?” I handed back the phone with fingers that trembled slightly.
He nodded. “You really think I should call the police?”
I could have laughed at the plaintive note in his voice, if this wasn’t such a serious matter. “Go ahead and call now, Noah, and then we’ll both feel better.”
He fumbled with his phone, and then laid it down on the table. “I better get my facts straight before I call. I need to remember when the other phone calls came in, and I can keep data on any new ones that I get.” He noted the time in the spiral notebook that he carried.
I tried one last time. “I really think you should call now, Noah. The police need to know that someone’s threatening you.”
“Yeah.” He finished his coffee in a gulp. “Look, I need to think things over before I make the call. But I’ll be really careful in the meantime, okay?” He stood up. “I need to get back to work.”
I bit back my frustration and nodded. “Okay. Give me your phone number, so I can get in touch with you if something comes up.”
I typed his number into my phone as he gathered up his pile of books and headed out the door. “Stay safe,” I called out after him. At least he was warned.
Chapter Ten
I thought about having lunch at the student union on campus, but decided that the students I’d met previously might ask awkward questions. I sent a quick text to McCarthy.
“When are you going to Philly? Time for lunch first?”
He picked me up ten minutes later.
“How ’bout lunch in Philly? Kill two birds with one stone?”
I laughed and hopped in the car. “Am I going with you to Randall’s law firm?”
He gunned the engine. “I never expected you to let me do this alone.”
McCarthy drove with all his windows rolled down, exulting in the wind blasting in his face. I have this theory that the cars people own and the way they drive gives an invaluable peek into their personality. For instance, Pete still had the pickup truck he bought in high school with his paperboy earnings. He lovingly took it in for service right on schedule and drove conservatively like a little old grandma. Aileen owned a beat-up red Ford with black flames painted on the hood, which she drove way too fast and parked in spots that might possibly accommodate a motorcycle, but nothing bigger. She didn’t actually have spikes protruding from her hubcaps, but I suspected that was only because she hadn’t gotten around to welding them on yet. I didn’t drive at all and had never owned a car, which did throw my theory off a bit. I liked to think that it made me mysterious and bewitching, but no one had ever used those adjectives in my hearing. McCarthy had collected the insurance money on his totaled BMW and bought a brand-new bright yellow Mustang that he drove like he was riding on an amusement park thrill ride. He swooped up the hills and zoomed down them as if he hoped to finally one day go airborne. I clutched the door handle with one hand and my wildly whipping hair with the other, praying that we would land on all four tires again if we ever did achieve his desire.
The relentless wind made conversation impossible, so I leaned back and tried to enjoy the scenery whipping past us. The road took us along the west bank of the Schuylkill River, past Fairmount Park, which was home to a number of historic mansions. I wondered if any of them had been candidates for My House in History.
Our progress slowed when we exited the highway and drove along the city streets. McCarthy finally maneuvered into a spot on the curb near Washingto
n Square, and killed the engine. He led me around the block to a small storefront. “Franco’s is my favorite lunch spot when I’m in the city.”
He led me into the dimly lit room, filled with orange vinyl upholstered booths surrounding nondescript tables that all seemed to be full. Overflow customers gathered around a couple of pool tables along the far wall. Foreign currency papered the walls, which were hung with black-and-white photographs from various European countries. I wondered if any of the pictures were McCarthy’s.
He led me to the one empty bar stool, and leaned over my shoulder to address the bartender. “Hey, Louie, this is my friend Daria. We’ll each have a Philly cheesesteak.” He gave me a quick glance. “You like Philly cheesesteak, right?”
I smiled politely, although this local specialty was one of my least favorite lunch choices. But I’d never eaten at Franco’s before.
By the time our food was ready, a pretty waitress named Amelia had settled us into a booth by the front window and started us out on a delightful assortment of roasted olives. She called McCarthy by name and teased him about a game of pool he’d evidently lost the last time he’d been in.
“Her boyfriend’s a pool shark,” he said, filling me in when she’d gone back to the kitchen. “She dared me to challenge him, and of course he trounced me.” He grinned. “All in good fun.”
I smiled back, my mouth full of my first bite of Philly cheesesteak. The fresh Amoroso roll was lightly toasted, the beefsteak was practically sizzling, and the provolone cheese beautifully melted over all. That was it, no onions or mushrooms to dull the taste of the meat and cheese. “This is the best Philly cheesesteak I’ve ever had.”
McCarthy took a huge bite, mumbling, “I thought you’d like it. Nothing but the best at Franco’s.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes, the better to appreciate the tasty food. Then McCarthy wiped his fingers on a napkin and leaned back in his seat. “So, my nosy seamstress friend, what did you find out from your most recent interviews at the university?”
I knew he’d ask me, and I felt funny about wanting to keep Noah’s revelations from him. But I knew Sean McCarthy loved a scoop as much as any other newspaperman. I just didn’t feel like I could trust him to keep quiet about a story as potentially explosive as the prospect of Major Compton being a traitor. “When I got to the university, I found that Professor Burbridge’s office had been broken into. The cops were still going over the scene. I talked with Noah Webster, a grad student who worked closely with Professor Burbridge. He told me the professor was working on some secret research, and he wondered if that could have had some bearing on his murder.” I saw McCarthy pull out his little notebook, and hurried to steer the conversation away from the topic of that research. “Noah was afraid he might be in danger as well, since he knows about the professor’s research.”
McCarthy jotted down a few notes. “What kind of research could get a guy murdered? Does this have to do with the contractors’ union or the law school cheating?”
I shrugged and took a big bite of cheesesteak. “Noah didn’t tell me all the details.” I wasn’t technically lying, since I was sure there were lots of details from those bulging file boxes that we hadn’t talked about.
McCarthy’s pencil scratched away. “How much do you know about Noah Webster? Maybe he’s the murderer, who killed his professor to take credit for this secret research for himself?”
I hadn’t considered that possibility, but it was certainly true that Noah was the only one left who knew about Professor Burbridge’s insight into Major Compton’s treason. He had done much of the research for his own thesis. Was he seeking fame and recognition for himself at the cost of his mentor’s life? And if he was a murderer, did he now have his sights trained on me, after telling me about this historical bombshell?
No, I couldn’t believe that. I thought of Noah Webster, his voice filled with emotion as he talked about his fondness for little Eli Fuller. I didn’t often make unerring snap judgments about people, but in this case I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Noah Webster was one of the good guys.
“No, Noah’s not a murderer. I’m sure of it.”
McCarthy eyed me skeptically. “Sounds like he’s got a pretty good motive, if this research is as important as he says it is.”
“Sean, he’s a sweetheart. He’s a goofy history nerd who knows all the secrets of a somewhat paranoid professor who is now dead. He’s terrified. Plus he told me he’s been getting hang-up phone calls. He got one while we were talking.”
“Did he tell the cops?”
“He said he didn’t want to talk to the cops. He was freaked out about the professor’s office being broken into.”
McCarthy frowned, and made another note. “He doesn’t want to talk to the cops? That doesn’t sound suspicious to you?”
I stood up. “It does not. Let’s go see what we can learn from the law office.”
He paid for our meal and we walked out the door. “So, what’s your plan to get us in the confidences of the good folks at Flint, Perkinson and Hubbard?”
I patted his camera, hanging around his neck as usual. “You tell them you’ve been sent by the newspaper to take photos to cover the story of the break-in. We’re interested in Laurel Springs because Randall is associated with the historical renovation at Compton Hall, which is big news in our small town. I’m along as your ‘assistant,’ and as such I can go anywhere and ask all kinds of nosy questions.”
He grinned. “I’ve never had an assistant before. This should be fun.”
Randall’s father’s law firm was located in a red brick row house in the Society Hill neighborhood. White shutters framed the windows, and a hundred years’ worth of ivy twined up the walls. A brass doorplate with the name “Flint, Perkinson and Hubbard” was the only indication that a prosperous business resided within. I knew immediately that this law firm was not one to advertise on late-night TV with a catchy phone number like 1-800-LAW-SUIT.
A middle-aged woman sitting at a heavy cherry reception desk met us when we walked in the door. Everything about her radiated professional perfection: her platinum-blond hair brushing her shoulders in a smooth bob, her beautifully manicured nails that clicked the keys of her keyboard, and the tasteful turquoise earrings that matched her turquoise bead necklace. She greeted us with a professional smile and said, “How can I help you?”
I felt immediately intimidated, but I’d forgotten that I was in the presence of a different kind of professional. McCarthy’s disarming smile as he introduced us looked suspiciously like a grin to me, but it worked, like it usually did. “We’re here to take some shots of the office and staff, to run with a short sidebar on the break-in.” He pulled out his notebook and pressed it into my hands. “Daria will make sure that the names of the staff are correctly spelled.”
I took my cue from him. “How do you spell your name, ma’am?”
She spelled out “J-O-A-N M-I-L-L-E-R,” and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. But the ice was broken. Joan showed us around the office and introduced us to a couple of junior partners. “Mr. Flint is not in the office, and Mr. Hubbard is preparing for a deposition in an hour and a half, so you won’t be able to see him.”
“What about Mr. Perkinson?” I asked.
She gave me a pitying look. “Mr. Perkinson passed on some twenty-seven years ago. He was one of the founding partners, so the firm still bears his name.”
I just nodded, making a note in McCarthy’s notebook so it looked like I knew what I was doing.
McCarthy snapped some random photos of the reception area. “Can you show us where the burglar got in?”
Joan led us to a corner office with windows on the two outer walls. A large cherry wood conference table surrounded by matching chairs dominated the room. Original artwork hung on the wall, and a delightful set of driftwood carvings depicting seagulls in flight fo
rmed a centerpiece on the table. One window was ajar, with the frame bent in such a way that it could no longer close completely.
McCarthy zoomed in on the twisted window frame, snapping a series of photos. “How did the burglar access this third-story window?”
I wandered around the periphery of the room while Joan pointed to the fire escape. I couldn’t discern anything out of place in the immaculate space. I passed behind Joan and gave McCarthy a surreptitious shrug.
He nodded, and asked Joan to stand next to the window for a couple of shots. “I see the burglar didn’t touch the artwork. Was anything taken from this room?”
Joan shook her head, and then rearranged her pristine hairdo for McCarthy’s next photo. “He came in here and then snooped around in the partners’ offices. As far as we can tell, the only files he accessed were in Mr. Flint’s office.”
“Can you show us?”
She led us down the hall past more original artwork, and into a lavishly decorated private office. The cherry desk matched the other furniture in the office, and the wood shone from vigorous polishing. On the desk a black-and-white photograph in a silver frame depicted a young blond woman holding a toddler, their cheeks pressed together in a beautiful pose of love. I recognized Randall’s wide mouth in the face of the laughing little boy. I felt a pang at the sight of his joyful innocence. Some people would benefit from never growing into adulthood.
Joan caught me looking at the photograph. “Mr. Flint’s first wife died shortly after that photo was taken. He’s been married twice since then, but he refuses to take that photo off his desk.”
McCarthy’s eyes twinkled at me as he snapped a picture of the office. I turned away so he wouldn’t pick up on the confusing mix of emotions surging through me. Randall had never told me about his mother. In the four years we’d been together I had never even met his father. I hadn’t made a big deal of it at the time, since I didn’t want to introduce Randall to my overbearing father, either. We’d been two people without a past, who turned out to be devoid of a future together as well. I wrote a few random words in the notebook, and tried to focus on the task at hand.
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