“I’m not convinced by these arguments. But we’ll lay that aside for the moment. Anyone else?”
I heaved a deep sigh. “There’s Randall Flint, the lawyer who has been appraising the valuables in this house. He’s my ex-fiancé, and I just realized that he’s the one who has been vandalizing my house for the past week. He had left something in the attic and stole my keys to get it out. He’s a jerk.”
“Being a jerk does not give him a motive for murder.”
“Right. I forgot to tell you. Besides his research into Major Compton, Professor Burbridge was researching a cheating scandal at Oliphant Law School during the time that Randall was a student. Burbridge was also looking into the contractors’ union that Carl Harper must belong to. That gives both Randall and Harper a motive to silence Burbridge to prevent his research from becoming public.”
Ruth scowled. “Is that all?”
I took another deep breath. I didn’t know how this next name would be received. “There’s John Ellis, who has the same motives as his mother to keep the professor’s research from seeing the light of day. I don’t know if you know that your will and Priscilla’s was stolen from your law firm during a break-in. Maybe that was John?”
“Of course I know.” Ruth rubbed her temples with both thumbs. “Have we come to the end at last?”
I nodded.
“All right. We have a varied cast of characters. Too many of them have legitimate motives for murder.” She paused at my involuntary gasp. “Don’t be ridiculous! I’m not saying those reasons would legitimize murder. I’m saying these people have motives that cannot be discounted. We cannot narrow down the list through consideration of motive alone.”
“I see.” As far as I could tell, the professor’s research, whether it was his research into Major Compton or his research into the two different scandals, was the direct cause of his death. The only suspect who had no connection to the professor’s research was Jamison Royce. What motive did he have to murder Professor Burbridge? Could I take him off my list?
“I have an idea.” I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea or not, but we had to do something. “What if you make an announcement that you have a momentous historical revelation based on Professor Burbridge’s research that you’re going to divulge at the end of the day’s filming, to be broadcast on the nationwide TV show? The murderer will certainly object to such a revelation. We can both watch closely and see who is threatened by this announcement.”
Ruth narrowed her eyes at me. “And are you watching me closely at this moment? If I reject your idea, does that prove to you that I am the murderer?”
I smiled at her, clenching my hands in my lap to stop their shaking. “I’ve taken you on as an ally. If I thought you were the murderer, I wouldn’t have done that.”
“Aha. I suppose I have done the same, although I could add another name to your list. There’s Daria Dembrowski, who was the first one to find Professor Burbridge’s body. She has gone out of her way to be kind and accommodating to Priscilla Compton, perhaps in hopes of receiving some kind of favors from her. This has extended even to the point of going to visit Priscilla’s difficult sister Ruth in the hospital.”
I had jumped to my feet at Ruth’s suggestion that I might have an ulterior motive for being kind to Priscilla, but by the time she got to the end, I couldn’t help laughing. “I hope you don’t really think I’m trying to get something out of Priscilla.”
For an instant Ruth’s face softened. “No, I don’t. You have been genuinely kind, as well as uncommonly perceptive. I trust that you are not a murderer.”
Her word “trust” took my breath away. She knew so little about me, yet she could trust that I was safe. But I had told McCarthy, whom I cared about, that I couldn’t trust him. A lump rose in my throat. Where was McCarthy now? Would I get the chance to tell him that I was wrong?
I shook off a growing sense of dread. He was probably downstairs snapping pictures right now, wondering why Ruth was taking so long to come down. “So? Should we try it?”
Ruth planted both hands on the arms of her chair and pulled herself to her feet as an insistent knock sounded at the door. She picked up her cane and thumped it down in front of her. “Let’s go flush out a murderer.”
Chapter Twenty
It was Louise knocking at the door. “They’re waiting for you downstairs, for the filming.” She didn’t say, “Hurry up, will you?” but she managed to convey a sense of urgency nonetheless. I wondered how long she’d been standing at the door, listening, before she knocked.
Louise was decked out in her period gown, which looked even more rushed than Ruth’s did. It wasn’t like you could see the stitching or the buttons didn’t line up or anything like that. It was just a lack of detail that made the gown disappointing in my eyes. It looked like something you could find on sale in a house museum gift shop for $79.99: just a simple bodice and long skirt to make a history tourist feel like she could briefly touch the olden days. Maybe this production was nothing more than that. I followed Louise and Ruth down the stairs, hoping that my sewing business survived once my creations were broadcast nationwide.
Ruth held her head high, a ruse that almost concealed the slowness of her steps. My initial assessment that she was fully recovered from her medical ordeal may have been overly optimistic. Still, there was nothing hesitant about her speech when she entered the living room.
She thumped her cane on the floor. “I have an announcement to make, before the filming can begin.”
Priscilla still sat in her wingback chair by the fireplace, her skirt spread about her to great effect. The makeup artists had worked their magic. Her face was artfully made up to minimize her wrinkles and highlight the sweetness of her smile. She held out a hand to Ruth, blithely disregarding Ruth’s announcement. “Ruth, dear, you look lovely. Come, sit by me.”
The rest of the household stood around the room, dressed in their best clothes, looking almost universally uncomfortable. Carl Harper seemed lost with no tool in his hands. Jamison Royce shifted from foot to foot, still wearing his unusual cap with the earflaps. John Ellis leaned on the back of his aunt Priscilla’s armchair, his sharp eyes on his mother. Randall lounged against the window frame, hands in his pockets. His eyes met mine momentarily, but I looked away. Randall and his misdeeds were the least of my concerns right now.
I scanned the rest of the occupants of the room; the camera operators, lights people, makeup folks, Cherry and Stillman directing the whole operation. No sign of a newspaper photographer or his reporter sidekick. I slipped out into the hallway for a quick check around, but he was nowhere in sight. Where could McCarthy be?
I hurried back to the living room in time for Ruth’s next words.
“I want you all to know that I plan to make a momentous disclosure at the end of our day of filming today. In memory of Professor Burbridge, whom we all mourn, I shall reveal the essence of his original research into the life of my ancestor, Major Samuel Compton, as well as some other historical inquiries he was pursuing.” She closed her mouth with a snap, seemingly unfazed by the buzz that greeted her words.
I kept my eyes on the four suspects who stood around the room: Harper, Royce, Randall, and John. I saw looks of surprise and interest, but couldn’t gauge whether any one of them was threatened by Ruth’s announcement. Maybe I just needed to let events unfold.
Cherry and Stillman signaled to begin the filming. Evidently their plan was to follow each contractor in turn through the house, focusing on the elements that that person was responsible for. They began by leading Carl Harper off to the kitchen, leaving the rest of us in the living room with instructions to remain on-site.
I started to follow the cameras to the kitchen with some idea of listening in on Harper’s responses to see if I could tell if he was nervous about Ruth’s impending disclosure. I didn’t get very far. Martin Sterling whisked through the front door a
nd caught my eye. I almost ran to his side.
“Any sign of McCarthy at his apartment?”
He shook his head. “His newspaper was still in the box, so he didn’t pick it up this morning. I went up and tried the door, but it was locked and nothing looked funny there.”
I plucked at his sleeve. “Did you go in? Maybe he had some kind of an accident inside.”
He nodded. “Yeah, I went in. Good thing no one else was home, ’cause I made a fair amount of noise breaking in. Guess I’ll owe McCarthy for some repair bills when this is all over. But he wasn’t there. No breakfast dishes, or wet toothbrush or washcloth or anything. I’m guessing he didn’t go home at all last night.”
“Where else would he have gone?” As soon as I said it, I was struck by the obvious and unacceptable answer that he’d gone to spend the night with someone else, someone who was not me. I couldn’t think of a particular person whom McCarthy would turn to for solace and more, but women loved McCarthy. They all did. He could have ended up at the home of any number of women in town. Who was I to say he shouldn’t? I blinked a few tears out of my eyes and concentrated on Sterling’s next words.
“Where was the last place you saw him? I saw him at the Chronicle first thing in the morning yesterday, but not after that.”
I took a deep breath, trying to get my emotions under control. “I went with him to his assignment at the university at noon. We had lunch afterward at the Station, where he and I had an argument. Last I saw him he was walking on the quad, upset with me. He did respond to a text a few minutes later, but nothing after that.”
“Did he drive to the university?”
I nodded.
He pulled out his phone, and then shoved it back into his pocket. “I’ll head over there, see if his car is still there. I guess the paper will have to do without a feature on Compton Hall’s shot at the limelight.”
I started to say I’d go with him, but I realized that I couldn’t leave Ruth alone to carry out our plan to expose a murderer. “Last I saw it, his car was parked in the lot next to the library. It was unlocked. Text me what you find.” I gave him my number.
Sterling nodded and whisked back out the front door.
I returned to the living room to find that Cherry and Stillman were done with Carl Harper. They were focusing on Jamison Royce, who talked easily about the plants he’d added to the garden. It looked like the rain had let up, so they could go outside and take some shots of the dripping garden.
I fidgeted and paced for the next hour and a half. If I had been a suspect, my actions would have given me away as guilty. At some point my phone dinged with a text from Sterling. “Car’s at university. No sign of McC. I’m calling police.”
I read this message over and over, trying to make sense out of the words. McCarthy had never left the university. Not in his car, at any rate. That tense little text message exchange that I had with him about how I was getting home may have been the last communication he had with anyone. At least I didn’t have to worry about him spending the night with an unknown woman. I just had to worry about whether or not he was still alive.
I pushed this thought away in horror. Of course he was still alive. I needed to see him, to apologize and make things right between us. It wouldn’t be fair if I never had the chance to say I was sorry for the way I treated him. It didn’t matter if he forgave me or not. I couldn’t bear it if the last conversation I ever had with McCarthy was a fight that I had started.
I put my hand over my eyes and tried to think. If he never left the university, then he must still be there. Maybe he’d gone back to talk to Noah again. I dialed Noah’s number, but there was no answer. Did the guy ever answer his phone?
I texted Sterling back. “Find Noah Webster. History grad student. He had lunch with McCarthy and me yesterday. Maybe he knows where to look.”
He responded right away. “Got it.”
I couldn’t stand being inside for one more minute. I slipped out of the living room, not caring whether or not I would be the next one interviewed. I walked out the door and paced up and down the driveway.
There were so many vehicles in the driveway that I could barely move. I couldn’t help looking for a bright yellow Mustang, even as I knew that it sat at the university, unoccupied. I remembered Noah’s comment that he had read little Eli Fuller’s letters over and over, hoping that maybe this time the end would come out differently. Where was Noah right now?
I paused next to Jamison Royce’s pickup, and tried Noah one more time. No luck. Was he missing too? I leaned my forehead on the passenger window, and closed my eyes. Oliphant University was a few short blocks away. I longed to search it, classroom by classroom, instead of leaving that job to Sterling. But I couldn’t abandon Ruth after she had set our plan into motion. I sighed and opened my eyes to push myself up off the door of the pickup. I wasn’t really trying to spy into Royce’s truck, but the object on the passenger seat caught my attention. It was a classy gray fedora.
It was identical to the gray fedora that I had admired at Noah Webster’s presentation, worn by a man who looked vaguely familiar to me. I tried to remember what it was about him that triggered that recognition. Something about the way he sat, in front of me. He was a big man, but unremarkable aside from his classy headgear. As I recalled, he didn’t have a beard, like Royce did.
Could that man at the presentation have been Jamison Royce? I’d seen the gray fedora twice: once at the presentation and then at the Station afterward as McCarthy, Noah, and I talked about the import of Professor Burbridge’s research. Was Jamison Royce spying on us? What interest did he have in the professor’s research? I couldn’t think of a single reason why he would feel threatened by historical revelations about Major Samuel Compton. Of course, it could be a different fedora altogether, and I was wasting my time even thinking about it. Somehow I doubted that that was the case.
I looked over at the garden to see that the TV folks had finished up with Royce. I walked back inside, wondering who was next.
Apparently Cherry had called a lunch break. The front hall was deserted. All the men had left, leaving Priscilla and Ruth alone in the living room. Priscilla smoothed her long skirt and smiled at me as I came in. “Such an exciting day, my dear. I’m almost too wound up to eat. John has gone out to fetch us some sandwiches.”
Ruth sat next to Priscilla. She held an unopened envelope in her hand with a look almost of dread on her face. “Daria, will you come with me for a moment?” She pulled herself to her feet and spoke to Priscilla. “We’ll be back in time for the sandwiches.”
She led me without speaking to the kitchen, and had me close the door behind me. She put a hand on the heavy wooden table as if she lacked the strength to stand without support. She indicated the envelope. “Louise just handed this to me. She found it on the bathroom counter.”
The envelope had Ruth’s name scrawled on the front. “It’s the response to your announcement.” I held out my hand, but Ruth kept hold of the envelope. She ran her finger under the flap and tore it open. It contained one sheet of paper. She read it in silence, her face paling by the time she got to the end. She handed it to me without a word.
It was a short note, handwritten with block lettering. The message was frighteningly simple: “Meet me in the basement if you want to see your son alive again. Come alone.”
I handed it back to her. “It’s a trap. Priscilla said John went out to get sandwiches.”
She frowned. “How do I know that’s where he is?”
Before I could answer, she pulled out a cell phone and dialed. I was still marveling that she was so up-to-date with technology when she clicked off her phone in frustration. Did no one in this town ever answer their phones?
“I suppose I have to go, to get to the bottom of this nonsense.” She straightened up and gripped her cane like the warrior that she was.
But I wasn’t go
ing to let her do this. “You can’t go alone. You’re only just back from the hospital. I’ll go with you.”
“You’ll do no such thing. This has nothing to do with you. You’ll stay here and get yourself on camera and cover my absence.”
She almost had me there. But I knew she wasn’t up to confronting a murderer. Not that I was either, but that didn’t matter. “You can’t go down there, Ruth. You’ll never make it down the stairs in that long dress. You know I’m right.”
She gritted her teeth. “I’m not going to send you down there to be killed.”
“No, listen. Whoever it is doesn’t know that I’ve read your note. When I go down to the basement with a load of wash to stick in the washing machine, they’ll just hurry me on my way. I can see what’s going on and come back up, while you call the police to back us up. Nobody’s going to get killed.” I headed out the kitchen door. “Where can I get a quick load of laundry?”
Ruth pointed out the linen closet, and I shook out a few sheets and gathered them into my arms. “I’ll be at the top of the stairs keeping an eye on you,” she said as we headed for the basement stairs.
I was dressed in a calf-length full skirt, which might give me trouble on the narrow wooden stairs to the basement, but I refrained from mentioning this to Ruth. I could hear her cane tapping behind me as we walked toward the head of the stairs.
So could the murderer! Whoever was waiting in the basement would hear that cane tapping above their head. They would know where Ruth was. I stopped with her right behind me. “You can’t come any further, Miss Ruth. Whoever’s down there will hear your cane. You should go back and stay with Priscilla.”
“Did I hear my name?” Priscilla shuffled around the corner, clutching a bouquet of lilacs in both hands. “The girls across the street picked these for me. Such sweet little things. Can you help me find a vase, my dear?”
Historically Dead Page 24