by Todd Ritter
“I do,” she said. “But you can’t be here. This place is a crime scene.”
“Are you talking about the museum itself or the messiness of the office?”
“Both.”
“Tony knows I’m here,” Nick said. “He told me I could wait for you in here, as long as I didn’t touch any evidence.”
“And did you?”
Nick raised his hands. “Not without gloves.”
Kat left the room, heading back to the gallery. Sitting by the entrance was a small box of latex gloves. She grabbed two pairs before returning to Constance’s office.
“Here,” she said, tossing a pair at Nick before snapping the remaining gloves over her own hands. “I know you desperately want to start rooting through those desk drawers.”
“Actually,” Nick said, “I was hoping for the bookshelves.”
“Suit yourself.”
Nick got to his feet with the help of his cane, gripping the handle, which was in the shape of a pit bull. Fitting, considering his personality. As he thumped his way to the bookshelves, Kat took his place at the desk. The moment she sat down, a tilting pile of folders finally toppled, sending their loose-leaf contents directly into her lap.
Most of it was reference material, detailing historical tidbits about some of the items in the museum’s collection. Other folders contained correspondence with similar museums throughout Pennsylvania. Sorting through them, she placed each folder in a pile on the floor until only two remained.
Kat opened the first folder. It held a single sheet of paper—a photocopy of a painting, most likely from a history book. It showed a woman pressed against a wooden pole, her arms bent behind her back and bound at the wrists. She was surrounded by flames, which consumed her feet and licked the hem of her dress. The expression on her face was a combination of pain, regret, and resignation.
The image was well wrought but disturbing. Just looking at it gave Kat a sense of unease that she couldn’t quite shake, even after she tucked the photocopy back into the folder.
“So what do you think of Lucy?” Nick asked as he leaned against the bookshelf, thumbing through a volume of Pennsylvania history.
If he was trying to sound casual, it didn’t work. Kat knew that was the real reason he had traveled all the way from Philadelphia to be here. Yes, a corpse in a museum was part of it, but he mostly wanted to know if she approved of his girlfriend.
“Well, she likes old bones,” Kat said. “Which definitely explains why she’s interested in you.”
“Very funny.”
“I like her. She was a big help this morning.”
Kat opened the final folder in her pile. Inside was a map, crudely drawn and completely uninformative. It contained no place-names or landmarks. Just a series of thin lines forming what looked to be a shoreline surrounded by trees, which were designated by tiny triangles. Between a tree and the water, someone had drawn a question mark with a red pen. Apparently Constance had been interested in geography as well as history.
“Do you really like her?” Nick asked, still on the topic of his girlfriend. “Or are you just saying that?”
“Yes,” Kat insisted. “I really do. She’s smart. She’s pretty. She’s a good catch.”
“She’s also tough,” Nick added. “I actually tried to tag along when she left this morning. She almost ran me over.”
“Smart woman,” Kat said. “Does she know you’ve already been hit by a car?”
Nick used his cane to tap his right knee. “Yeah. I think that’s why she didn’t actually go through with it.”
Kat started searching the rest of the desk, finding only identical folders filled with identical papers, a few brochures from nearby historical sites, and a good deal of takeout menus from every Chinese food place in the county. Everything Kat examined joined the growing pile next to the chair. Within minutes, the stack on the floor was knee high and the desk was bare, except for Constance’s office phone and a notepad next to it.
Nick had moved on to another shelf, tossing books aside and peeking into notebooks bursting with loose pages. “And how’s your love life? Any prospects?”
He was referring to Eric Olmstead, the man who had hired him to find his long-lost brother six months ago. Kat and Eric had dated briefly in high school, and when he’d returned to Perry Hollow, for a few days the sparks of attraction between them made it feel like no time had passed. But Kat had her son to worry about. Eric had his family to deal with. The sparks soon died out, and within a month, Eric was back in Brooklyn working on his next book.
“None,” Kat said. “It’s just me and James and the dog.”
“Don’t you ever get lonely?”
“No.” Kat grimaced at the falseness of her voice. She had always been lousy at concealing her emotions. “Now, can we change the subject?”
“Sure. Pick a topic.”
“Henry’s back in town.”
Nick dropped the notebook he was holding. It burst open when it hit the floor, sending loose paper fluttering around his ankles.
“Henry Goll?” he asked as he awkwardly bent to clean up the mess.
“Yep.”
“The obituary writer who was targeted by a serial killer Henry Goll?”
“The very one,” Kat said. “He lives in Italy now. He’s here working on a story.”
“Must be one hell of a story.” Nick was now sitting on the floor, shoving paper back into the notebook. “How’s he doing?”
“Fine, I guess. I think he’s sadder than he admits. And—”
Kat was going to say lonely but stopped short. That word had been bandied about the room enough this morning, even though it accurately described not only Henry but herself, as well. Instead, she grabbed the notepad on the desk and pulled it toward her. The paper was white, except for a quote printed in black at the top. “Those who cannot remember the past are forced to relive it.”
The top page, while unmarked, was indented slightly by thin lines of curved script that showed faint traces of what had been written on the page before it. It looked to be two short words, like someone’s name. Kat brought the notepad close to her face, squinting to see if she could make out a few of the letters. But the indentations were too faint and the words pushed too close together.
“And what?”
Kat lowered the notepad, seeing that Nick was now on the other side of the desk, leaning expectantly on his cane.
“You started to say something about Henry but never finished your sentence.”
“Busy,” Kat said. “I think he’s really busy.”
She opened the top drawer of Constance’s desk. It was filled with the usual office clutter of staples, paper clips, and pens with chewed caps. She grabbed a pencil, making sure it was sharpened.
Nick watched her with a look of unbridled confusion. “What are you doing?”
“Someone—I’m assuming Constance—wrote something on the sheet of paper before this one. Whatever it is might be able to shed some light on what Constance was up to.”
She slid an angled edge of the pencil’s tip across the top page of the notepad. It was an old trick she and her girlfriends had used in junior high. They’d write a note on a top sheet, throw it away, and pass the page below it, which could only be read after shading it in with pencil. It was used as a precaution in case a teacher confiscated it or, worse, it was intercepted by one of the boys they were writing about. And while it might not have been sophisticated, the trick worked then in third-period algebra and it worked now in Constance Bishop’s office. When Kat was finished rubbing the pencil over the entire piece of paper, she saw a handwritten name stick out in white against the scrapes of charcoal gray.
brad ford
Kat didn’t recognize the name. If it was someone in Perry Hollow, he was certainly off her radar. She thought once again of the strangely dressed man she had seen on the street during the fire. She didn’t recognize him, either, which meant she was losing touch with the town or it was growing too fa
st for her to keep up. Not a good prospect either way.
“While you were playing Nancy Drew,” Nick said, “I found something of actual value.”
He placed a spreadsheet on the desk and slid it toward Kat. She scanned it, eyes immediately going bleary because of all the columns of numbers and rows of dates. Still, she could tell it was a copy of the historical society’s finances. And money, it seemed, was tight. Covering the past two years, the numbers on the spreadsheet got lower with each passing month, eventually turning from black to red before getting progressively higher again. Most of the expenses were for recurring charges. Electric bills. Maintenance costs. Office supplies. But the spreadsheet was also dotted with other, more random amounts. A thousand dollars here. Four thousand dollars there. The week before, Kat noted, someone had withdrawn two hundred bucks.
“I knew the historical society was struggling,” she said. “I just didn’t think it was this bad. They’re swimming in debt.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if even some members didn’t know about this,” Nick added. “Figures like these are something an organization’s leadership might want to keep secret.”
“Clearly, Constance Bishop knew. And so did whoever put this together.”
Kat scanned the spreadsheet again. In the top left corner was the name of the man who had prepared it, along with his title: Claude Dobson, Treasurer, Perry Hollow Historical Society.
“I think,” she said, “that it’s time we paid Mr. Dobson a little visit.”
*
Fifteen minutes later, Kat found herself staring at a wall of rifles. There were more than a dozen of them, ranging in age from old to downright ancient. Wood polished and barrels gleaming, they looked like a museum display in the middle of Claude Dobson’s living room.
“You’ve noticed my collection,” he said, ignoring that there was no way Kat couldn’t have noticed them.
“Yes. It’s quite the display,” said Tony Vasquez, who sat next to Kat on Mr. Dobson’s sofa.
It was just the three of them in the living room, Nick having been ordered to wait in the car. Ex-cops could sort through desks. Interviewing suspects was a different matter.
Since he was in charge of the investigation, Kat let Tony do most of the talking. She was content to sit back and study Claude Dobson, who had been a history teacher at Perry Hollow High School when she was a student. Although he was much older now, his appearance was much the same as it was then. Same downturned mouth. Same shock of white hair. Same ruddy cheeks that led to rumors that he kept a flask in his desk. The only changes Kat could detect were his jowly chin and rheumy eyes.
“History is my hobby,” Claude said. “But historical weapons are my passion.”
“Just rifles?” Tony asked
“Heavens no. I have several knives, a Japanese sword, a hand grenade from the First World War.”
“Do any of them still work?”
Claude shot the lieutenant an exasperated look that Kat remembered well from her days in his classroom. “Have you ever heard of a samurai sword that stopped working?”
“I meant the guns,” Tony said. “And the hand grenade.”
“I suppose they would, if I bothered to use them. Which I don’t. They’re simply objects of beauty to show off and admire. Then there’s the historical value, of course. This country—every country, quite honestly—was built on the use of weapons like these. Many people forget that. Ah, but you’re not here to talk about my collection. You want to ask me about Constance.”
“That’s correct,” Tony said. “How well did you know her?”
“Oh, exceedingly well. We worked closely together for decades. The historical society is a small, insular organization. We knew each other inside and out.”
“Did you like her?”
“I didn’t dislike her,” Claude replied. “We had our ups and downs. But you can say that about many people.”
“Mr. Dobson,” Kat said. Having been a student of his, she didn’t even consider addressing him any other way. “Emma Pulsifer told me Constance and other members of the group didn’t see eye to eye. Especially about finances. I can only assume she was referring to you.”
Claude Dobson turned his attention from Tony to Kat herself. Despite the watery eyes, his gaze was still potent. For a split second, Kat felt like she had been caught cheating on her homework.
“I had you as a student, didn’t I?”
“Yes, sir. In 1989.”
“If I recall, you were a mediocre one. C-plus material.”
“I don’t remember,” Kat said, even as her memory managed to dredge up the fact that she had received a B in his class.
“So tell me, Chief. How does it feel to accuse one of your old teachers of committing arson and murder?”
“We’re not accusing you of anything,” Tony said. “We’re just asking a few questions.”
Kat piped up. “How did you know it was arson and murder? The police haven’t officially announced that yet.”
“Lucky guess.” The former teacher’s thin lips formed a flattened smile. “Or maybe it was the simple fact that the museum caught fire at the same time Constance was found dead inside.”
“Where were you last night when the fire broke out?” Tony asked.
“I was at the Chamber of Commerce fund-raiser,” Claude said. “Several dozen people saw me there.”
“The party was still going on at one in the morning?”
“It was wrapping up at that time.”
“Half the town came out to see the fire,” Kat said. “But I didn’t see you there.”
“That’s because I didn’t go. Emma Pulsifer had left an hour earlier. Father Ron, Mayor Hammond, and I were still there when we heard the fire trucks. The two of them headed off to see the fire. I walked home.”
Kat leaned forward, studying her former teacher for signs he was lying. A rapid blinking of the eyes, for instance, or a twitching at the mouth. She saw nothing. “Weren’t you the least bit concerned that the museum was on fire?”
“I didn’t know it was the museum until Emma called me very early this morning with the tragic news about Constance.”
“Let’s get back to Mrs. Bishop,” Tony said. “She was apparently spending a lot of time in her office lately.”
“Ah, yes,” Claude replied. “Her secret project. She tried to hide the fact that she was working on something, but it was obvious. Only Emma seemed not to notice. No surprise there.”
“Do you know what the project was about?” Tony asked.
Claude shook his head. “I don’t. None of us did. But we were about to. I suppose Emma told you about the emergency meeting Constance had called for tonight.”
“She did,” Kat said.
“While our meetings were often less exciting than watching paint dry, I was looking forward to this one. I suspect Constance had found something very interesting. Now we might never find out what it was.”
On the way there, Kat and Tony had debated about mentioning the skeleton under the floor to the other members of the historical society. They eventually decided not to. Because the bones were apparently unearthed only recently, it was likely that Constance had been acting alone. If she wasn’t, then the hope was that her accomplice would slip up and mention it without prompting.
“What about the name Brad Ford?” Kat said. “You ever hear Constance mention him?”
“Brad Ford.” Claude rolled the name around in his mouth, tasting it like an oenophile did wine. “I can’t recall ever hearing the name. Was he a relative of hers? I thought she didn’t have any family.”
“We don’t know who he is,” Kat said. “I found the name in her office and thought it might be related to her secret project.”
“Constance didn’t like to share too many things with me, since we disagreed on most of them.”
“What else did you two disagree about?” Tony asked. “Money? We found your financial reports in her office. We know the historical society was deep in debt.�
�
Claude crossed his legs and folded his hands on his knees. It was a sight Kat knew well. During class Mr. Dobson would often assume that same pose as he sat on the corner of his desk. When he did, his students would ready their notebooks, knowing a torrent of information was about to be unleashed. That morning was no different.
“Constance was good-hearted but foolish,” he said. “And I’m not just saying that because, given my background in teaching history, I should have been president. She had lofty goals and silly notions that people in this town actually give a shit about history. Having been the one to teach it to most of them, I can assure you they don’t. If they did, the museum wouldn’t have been flat broke.”
“Emma said some of you wanted to charge admission to the museum,” Kat said. “Were you one of them?”
“My, that Emma talks a lot,” Claude said. “But to answer your question, yes. I’m the mean old man who dared suggest we actually make people pay to enter the museum. Constance, of course, disagreed. She said charging a fee cheapened our mission.”
“If money was so tight, why didn’t you sell some of the collection?” Tony asked. “It was worth millions.”
Claude uncrossed his legs, sighed, crossed them in the other direction. “And that was part of the problem. Constance kept buying new items. Because the museum building itself is on the state registry of historic places, we get some cash from the government. And there were fund-raisers, of course. Raffles, things like that. But as soon as the money came in, it went out again. Constance would spend it almost instantly on some godforsaken antique she insisted that the museum just had to have.”
“And I suppose,” Kat said, “she wasn’t too keen on selling anything.”
“She hated that idea more than charging admission. So we were left with too many items to put on display and no money in our bank account.”
“Sounds like the historical society was on the path to bankruptcy.”
“It was,” Claude said. “And had things stayed the same, I’m sure that would have been the end result.”