The Sounds of Home

by Greenwood Muir, Diane

  "Why would someone be using the presses?" Polly asked. "Printing propaganda posters?"

  He laughed. "I can't imagine. Look to see if there's anything in the trash bins."

  "Nothing," Polly said, pointing at two large trash containers lying on their sides at the back of the room.

  "Interesting. Bindery equipment in the other room?"

  "Bindery equipment?" Jeff asked.

  "Folding machines, collators, cutter. The machines to assemble printed pieces after they come off the press."

  Polly pointed at the other room. "I recognized a couple of machines from the library. These are bigger and more impressive."

  He walked across the hall, flipped on the light and stood in front of a large machine with an electronic panel on its side. He powered it on. "Big cutter. Let's see what's programmed in here."

  "Because you'll be able to tell what they were printing?" Polly asked. "Seriously, though, why would they sell this building if they were using the print shop?"

  "Maybe Lillybeth didn't know her husband was using the equipment," Henry said. "I wasn't sure if the man even knew his way to Bellingwood. I wasn't sure if he existed. She rarely spoke of him and her signature is the only one on any paperwork."

  Jon scrolled through a menu. "Pretty standard stuff, I guess. This cut is a little different, but that doesn't mean anything to me. Nothing in any trash bins?"

  Two more large trash cans lay on their sides.

  "I can't understand why they carried out their trash if they couldn't be bothered to clean up the presses." He gave his head a quick shake. "I apologize. I'm making a mystery out of nothing. It's probably no big deal."

  Polly smiled. "We can take time to look around. Maybe we'll solve a mystery, maybe we won't. Jeff, have you looked in the basement?"

  He shuddered. "Are you kidding me? There are probably cobwebs and other ghastly things down there."

  "Have you looked?"

  "Well, no. When we move in, I'll hire someone to clean it out and make it pristine before I go down there. The door's back here if you want to see it."

  "Let's look," she said, taking Jon's hand. "Henry, are you coming?"

  "I guess so."

  Henry flipped the light on at the top of the steps and headed down. At least the stairs were solid and had railings on both sides.

  "Why would they bring paper down here and haul it back up?" he asked.

  Jon looked around and pointed. "There. That's what I was looking for." He walked across the room and pulled on a handle. A large door opened to a shelf. "It's like a dumbwaiter for paper. This place has been used for printing newspapers a long time. They probably closed off the chute where they unloaded pallets of paper years ago, so they had to bring it down the steps. But this way they can store it where it's cool and send it up to the press room when necessary."

  Henry peered in. "It's just a pulley system. That's cool. Why is it so large?"

  "These are big sheets of paper we're talking about. Twenty-two by thirty-five inches at a minimum," Jon said. "And you put a couple thousand sheets on there, it's heavy." He walked over to a stack of boxes, opened one and lifted a sheet of paper. After rubbing his fingers on it, he said, "We need to call your sheriff back."

  "Another body?" Henry asked.

  "Nope. Bigger trouble. You're about to have the Secret Service visiting this little town. I had an idea about what was going on. It was all I could come up with, but I needed more information first."

  "What?" Polly asked. "What are you talking about?"

  "Counterfeiting."

  "In Bellingwood? You've got to be kidding me."

  "Not kidding."

  Henry frowned. "I thought it was nearly impossible to reproduce the newer bills."

  "They didn't try to do that. Whoever this is has been printing older bills. You've got an old-time master printer here."

  "He’s from Bellingwood?"

  "Doubtful," he said. "Guessing this guy was brought into town. I wonder how long this has been going on. They bought the building last year?"

  "But nothing was done with it," Polly said.

  "An unoccupied fully furnished print shop with a back entrance and rooms that would show no light to the outside."

  "Surely someone would hear the press running at night."

  "Businesses are closed at night, right?" Jon asked.

  "Of course."

  "Bet insulation has been put in above the ceiling tiles."

  "That might have been there before," Henry said. "There have always been apartments above the shop. A lot of these buildings have extra insulation between the floor and ceiling."

  Polly pushed open a door on the other side of the room. "Uh, guys. Look at this."

  Henry and Jon joined her as they peered into a fully outfitted bedroom. The bed had been stripped and nothing personal was on either the dresser or the bedside table. A small table and two chairs sat beside a cart with a dorm size refrigerator and a microwave in it, and a leather recliner took up a corner with a standing lamp tucked in. On a far wall, another open door led to a small bathroom.

  "Here’s where your printer lived," Jon said.

  "This is really something. I can’t believe he stayed in here all alone," Polly remarked.

  "For enough money, people will do most anything. It’s time to call the sheriff." Jon walked back out into the main room and shook his head at the boxes stacked near the dumbwaiter. "They brought this paper in and didn't have time to haul it out," Jon said. "It's not quite as good as what the government uses to print currency, but it's close."

  "How do you know about this stuff?" Polly asked.

  "I have friends in the Secret Service. Well, not exactly friends, but people I’ve worked with in the past. Since I had grown up in a printshop, I asked a lot of questions."

  "Bet that put you on someone's watch list."

  Jon laughed and pointed at the stairs. "I could be completely wrong, but Sheriff Merritt needs to make some calls just to be sure."

  "I don’t believe this," Polly said. "I thought I was the one who caused trouble. You have got to stop coming to town and stirring things up."

  "Wait," Jon said. "This is not my fault."

  Henry was halfway up the steps and stopped. "That's Polly's line."

  They got back upstairs to find that Jeff was already gone. Polly walked toward the front of the shop and dialed Aaron's number.

  "This can't be Polly Giller. She was just in the diner and headed over to where she already found a body. Tell me you did not find a second one."

  "I didn't find a second one," Polly said. "Where are you?"

  "Right now?"

  She giggled. "Yes, right now."

  "I'm still at the diner. You haven't been gone that long."

  "Holding court?" she asked.

  "Why are you so curious as to my activities?"

  "How many friends do you have in the Secret Service?"

  "The what? Polly, what's going on."

  She watched him come out of the diner and look across the street. "What if I told you there might have been a counterfeiting ring operating out of the print shop."

  "Unlock that front door. I see you."

  Aaron strode across the street. Polly flipped the lock on the door, and pushed it open to let him in.

  "What in the world are you talking about?" he asked.

  "It's not my fault. Blame Jon for this one."

  "That boy isn't going to be welcome in my town one of these days. What did you find?"

  Jon and Henry were standing in the hallway.

  "I could be wrong," Jon said, "but I think we might be looking at a counterfeit operation back here. The press still has ink in it, there is rag paper in the basement and the trash bins are all empty. If someone was printing flyers or newspapers, we'd see signs of those lying around. I wouldn't have thought a thing about it, except that I smelled fresh ink when I walked in the press room. Henry said that it hadn’t been in use in a long time. I shouldn’t have smel
led anything."

  "Why do you know that smell?" Aaron asked.

  "Used to work in my uncle's print shop back east. And now that I know what I'm looking at, the last cut programmed in that paper cutter is just about the size of currency."

  Aaron scratched his head. "In Bellingwood. Are you telling me that Brad Anderson was printing money here?"

  "He would have had to be a master printer," Jon said. "Do you think he was?"

  Aaron shrugged. "Need to talk to my deputy. She knows more about him than I do at this point. Oh, she's not going to like this. How long do you think it’s been going on?"

  "There’s a room in the basement. Someone’s been living here. I'd call the electric company," Polly said. "Find out when the usage started going back up. Maybe it never went down. Maybe they got into something that Annabelle had started."

  Aaron laughed. "I suppose anything is a possibility, but I wouldn’t think she’d have walked away from a business where she could make money. Get it? Making money?" He shook his head. "The government makes brand new bills that can't be easily counterfeited and yet, in Bellingwood, Iowa, I have a printshop that's churning it out. How is this my lot in life?"

  "I have a couple of buddies I can call," Jon said. "They'll probably tell you to call Des Moines, though."

  Aaron sighed. "I'm calling my buddy at the Department of Criminal Investigation. He can bring in the big guns. Here we thought this was a simple murder. Figured Polly would solve it before the week was out."

  "Hey," she protested.

  "You don't have anything else going on, do you?" Aaron had his phone in his hand. He swiped it a few times, then tapped a button and put it to his ear. "Suppose y'all fingerprints are all over this place."

  "Sorry," Polly said. "I wasn't expecting this."

  "Why would you? Hey, Arlene. Aaron Merritt here. Can you connect me with Darrell?" He paused. "Yeah. I'll wait." He turned to Polly. "Probably in the bathroom, you know."

  She laughed. "You're awful."

  "I am. Hey, Digger. Aaron here. I need you to get involved in something. Got time for me?"

  Jeff, Adam, and a man with grey hair came up behind Jon and Henry.

  "Why is the sheriff here?" Jeff asked. "Did you find something else?"

  "No body," Henry whispered. "But maybe something more interesting."

  Aaron walked back out the front door to talk to his friend.

  "Are we going to be able to buy this place?" Jeff asked.

  "Maybe not for a few weeks," Polly said. "Seems like the police will be here longer than we thought."

  "What is going on?"

  Aaron walked back inside. "Hello Jeff. Adam. Good to see you, Brendan. Trying to make a sale today?"

  The grey-haired man smiled. "Thought I'd try. The owner is rarin' to go."

  "She's going to have to wait. DCI is coming up this afternoon. Might be bringing some Secret Service pals in."

  "For what?" Adam asked.

  "Possible counterfeiting. If it's nothing, we'll be in and out. If it's something, we're going to tie you up a little longer. Brendan, can I get the key from you?"

  The realtor pursed his lips. "This building is cursed. Keys are down at the office. Do you want me to bring them back? We just have the lockbox out back."

  Aaron nodded. "We need to be able to get in and out of here."

  "I'll get you a couple of temporary cards for the lockbox," Brendan said. He shook his head and turned to Jeff. "I'm sorry about this."

  Jeff looked at Adam, who just grinned.

  "Think of the stories we'll have," Adam said.

  "You sure?"

  "Why not?"

  "No need to be sorry," Jeff said. "We're all friends here. When the building is ready to be sold, we'll still be ready to buy."

  "Look at you getting on board with the excitement," Polly said. "Aaron, do you need us to stick around?"

  He sighed again. "No, you all can go. I'm sure we'll be in touch. Jon, how long are you staying in Iowa?"

  "I was planning to go to Kansas City on Wednesday. If you need me to come back, I suspect you still have my phone number."

  "Great. Now I get to call Deputy Hudson and tell her that her murder just became a much bigger problem."

  "You can always hope that there's nothing to it," Polly said.

  He glared at her. "You're involved. There's something to it."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  "Jon and I can walk back to Sycamore House," Polly said. "I know you need to get going."

  "It will take five minutes," Henry protested.

  "Honestly, after everything that’s happened, I wouldn't mind the walk. Are you okay with that, Jon?" Polly asked.

  Jon grinned. "I'm only here for the food."

  "Just keep a respectful distance," Henry said. "I don't want to hear rumors that my wife is cavorting with a good-looking out-of-towner." He kissed her cheek. "Things went differently than we planned today, but it was interesting. I learned a lot."

  They were standing in front of his pickup truck and she took his hand. "I don't understand how you made time for us today. Are you sure everything is okay at work?"

  "Trust me. If things were bad, I wouldn't have taken the time. I'm fine. Preoccupied with the thefts and what that might mean. It was better for me to be here than anywhere else."

  "We're still talking about this later. I'm not done."

  "I love you, too." Henry kissed her again and put his hand out for Jon. "See you tonight at dinner. I'm not sure if I should say thank you for what you did today or wonder if suddenly you’re about to become part of Polly's stable of investigators."

  Polly shook her head. "Go. Do your thing. We need to be at Sycamore House before the hordes descend and wonder where I've gone. Kristen and Edna aren't paid enough to corral our kids."

  "I'll try to keep her out of trouble," Jon said.

  Henry honked as he drove past them. Polly hooked her arm into Jon's, waving madly at her husband.

  "You are a troublemaker," Jon said.

  "Every chance I get. I cannot believe you're here and I can't believe you might have uncovered a counterfeiting operation in sleepy little Bellingwood. Jon Renaldi, this town isn't big enough for two of us."

  Simon Gardner opened the door of his antique shop, holding his cat, Crystal. "Hello there."

  Polly stopped. "Simon. How are you?"

  "I'm curious," he said. "Very curious."

  "About what?" She gave him a knowing grin.

  "I could say I was curious about your young man friend, but I'm more curious about the activity at the old newspaper shop. Is there something more involving Brad Anderson?"

  "Simon, this is my friend, Jon Renaldi. Jon, this is Simon Gardner, a very good friend of mine."

  The two men shook hands.

  "That answers my first question," Simon said.

  Polly bit her lip. Aaron and the DCI investigator, Darrell Douglas, hadn't said a word about keeping things quiet, but suddenly she felt odd about being the first one to talk about what they'd discovered.

  "Is there something else?" Simon asked. "Was Brad into something untoward?"

  Jon's eyebrows lifted at Simon's use of the archaic term.

  "Simon knows the Andersons," Polly said, in way of explanation. "Probably better than anyone else in town."

  "I wouldn't say that," Simon said.

  "Who else in Bellingwood has spent time with any of them?" Polly replied. "Do you know if Brad Anderson had a background in printing? Was that why they invested in the newspaper?"

  Simon laughed out loud. "Brad Anderson has a background in sponging off his wife. She did purchase the newspaper so that he would have something to do, but he had no training. He had no training in anything, at least nothing that required him to learn a skill. He was nothing more than a lazy, good-for-nothing, spoiled child. And that comes from someone who rarely speaks ill of the dead. Why do you ask?"

  She glanced up at Jon. "It's all going to come out."

  He chu
ckled. "That's what Mama keeps telling us. You don't need a local newspaper; news ripples through the community in a heartbeat."

  "Drop the pebble, Polly," Simon said.

  She frowned at him. "What?"

  "Start the ripple."

  "By the way, what happened with your brother's doctor's appointment last week?"

  "Sam is an old fart with kidney stones. Nothing worse than that. Now, stop avoiding my question. What is going on over there?"

  "Maybe counterfeiting."

  "Money?" Simon took a step back. His cat, Crystal, let out a squeal and he loosened his grip on her. "It's nearly impossible to counterfeit money these days."

  "Not the older bills," Jon said. "But we aren't sure of anything. The Department of Criminal Investigation is working with Sheriff Merritt. They'll call the Secret Service."

  Simon nodded. "Talked to those fellas once a long time ago. Had a series of counterfeit bills come through my shop."

  "And here all I thought they did was protect presidents and their families," Polly said.

  "They were created to deal with counterfeiting back in 1865," Simon said. "Did you know that the legislation to create the agency was on Lincoln's desk the day he was assassinated? They began investigating federal crimes alongside the US Marshal service and when McKinley was assassinated in 1901, they were asked to provide protection for the president. They were also responsible for domestic intelligence until the FBI was created in 1908. Quite a powerful group, the Secret Service."

  "How do you know all of that?"

  Simon chuckled. "I read."

  "I read, too," Polly said. "But I've missed some interesting historical tidbits along the way."

  "When you're my age, you'll find you have much more information tucked into that little mind of yours. Do you believe Brad was involved in counterfeiting?" Simon posed that question to Jon, which made Polly smile.

  "It seems right," Jon said. "But Polly is the one who uncovers the answers to these mysteries, not me. I just stand by and make sure she's safe while she does it."

  "Her friends are quite grateful for that." Simon turned back to Polly. "Has Henry had a chance to bring those chairs down from the attic?"

  "He didn't do that yet?" she asked with a frown. "I'll talk to him again tonight. He's had a lot on his mind the last few days."