“To be specific, no photographs taken by Sean McCarthy,” Emmett intoned. “That’s the rule.”
McCarthy grinned widely. “It’s a public event, McDowell. I take photos for the benefit of the public. I’m pretty sure you can’t throw me out of here.”
Emmett turned his back on the photographer and addressed the security guard. “As per my instructions, on behalf of the McDowell family, no photographs will be taken by one Sean McCarthy of the Laurel Springs Daily Chronicle.”
Several patrons stared at the disturbance. The woman in the paisley dress leaned on a glass-topped display case, intent on the action. But staring wasn’t enough for Colonel Windstrom. He lumbered over to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the security guard. He cast a fierce gaze at McCarthy. “You! You have no business here.”
McCarthy’s smile widened again. “Colonel Windstrom, as I live and breathe! I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”
Colonel Windstrom’s frown sent a small child scurrying off to the safety of his mother. He shook his fist in McCarthy’s face. “You’re going to wish you never saw me! I’ve already started legal proceedings against you and the Chronicle for libel. You think you can take whatever pictures you want and print them with no permission or consequences? You’re about to learn otherwise.”
McCarthy didn’t look like he was planning to learn a lesson today. He stood his ground, still grinning, while the security guard abandoned his efforts at protecting the table to address this new threat. I gazed at the mahogany table in amazement. It held the doll—little Virginia’s beautiful doll from the photograph. I sidled over to the table, drinking in the lovely yellow silk ball gown with its faded bows and ruffles.
Colonel Windstrom was working up steam. “You’re gonna pay through the nose, you and that so-called newspaper you work for! When I’m through with you, you won’t even be able to take baby pictures in this town.”
I tried to ignore the altercation. The doll’s head was definitely fabric, not china. Tiny bows and the remains of feathers held the fine horsehair twist in place. I studied the back of the head. Just like Colonel McDowell’s coat, the tiny, barely visible stitches of the doll’s construction were marred by larger, clumsy stitches tacking down the hair. Maybe Virginia had tried to cut it? I looked at the placard: “Virginia McDowell’s beloved doll, Angeline, circa 1862.”
“Oh, Windstrom, I’m so glad you’re here. You’re always good for a front-page photo, you know.” McCarthy smiled impudently, aimed his camera, and captured a picture of Colonel Windstrom’s scowling face just inches from his own.
How long before they came to blows? The poor security guard had his hands full. I studied the placard on the wall behind Angeline. It told a sad tale: Little Virginia died at the age of ten, a victim of smallpox. Her grief-stricken mother decreed in her will that Angeline would pass down to the oldest female McDowell in each generation. Emmeline received the doll as a wedding gift from her husband’s Aunt Priscilla, and dutifully passed it down to her own daughter and granddaughter. Stella Comstock, née McDowell, current owner of the doll, had loaned her to the exhibit. I was glad that Angeline belonged to someone other than Emmett. He didn’t deserve to own such a lovely doll.
“You’re not gonna get away with this! Give me that damn camera!” Colonel Windstrom’s bellowing echoed off the marble walls.
Someone touched my arm, and I jumped. It was only Pete. “I need to get going, Daria,” he said, throwing an anxious glance over his shoulder. The low gallery light intensified the shadows under his eyes.
I pointed. “Look, Pete, it’s the doll from the photograph. Angeline.”
Pete elbowed me gently. “Still playing with dolls, huh?” He leaned in for a closer look. “Sometimes they used dolls to hide valuables during the Civil War,” he mused. “I just read about a doll being used to conceal medicine for Southern troops. Do you suppose Angeline has a secret? I wish she’d let me in on it.” He straightened up to look at me. “Sorry to cut out on you, Daria. I need to take care of something that just came up. Will you be able to get home okay?”
I should have known better than to rely on him. “Yeah, sure, I can take the bus home. What do you need to take care of?”
“It’s not a big deal—just something that came up. You don’t need to worry about it.” He waved as he took off, hurrying out the door.
I saw Emmett’s eyes following Pete’s departure, an ugly frown on his face. What did he care?
“No one touches the equipment!” McCarthy pushed Colonel Windstrom squarely in the chest, sending him reeling back into a display case. The security guard grabbed for him, but the photographer sidestepped him with ease. He snapped a quick photo of Colonel Windstrom lunging at him, then the two men smashed into the wall. The security guard hollered, “Break it up. Now!”
The room was emptying fast. The woman in the paisley dress hurried past me to the exit.
Jim Laker appeared at my elbow. He extended his arm in a courtly gesture. “Can I offer you an escort away from this chaos?”
I saw Emmett slide out from behind his table, his eyes scanning the gallery. He glowered at the errant photographer.
It looked like McCarthy was getting the worst of the fight. Colonel Windstrom grabbed his shoulders and flung him bodily to the floor. McCarthy skidded across the shiny linoleum and careened smack into me. I clutched at Jim, but it was no use. I went down like a bowling pin in strappy sandals, my skirt flying up to my hips. I landed hard against the wall, with McCarthy sprawled across my legs.
“God, I’m so sorry,” he gasped. The man was laughing! He scrambled to his feet and reached down a hand. I grudgingly held up my own hand, but he wasn’t even interested in helping me up. He scooped up his camera and snapped a picture of me, sprawled on the floor like some kind of drunk. Then he spun away from me, ducked a blow from the security guard, and took a picture of Angeline. He danced around her, dodging the guard’s lunges and ignoring Colonel Windstrom’s hollering, and took photo after photo of the beautiful doll. I sat on the floor and stared in disbelief.
Jim knelt down beside me. “Are you all right, Daria?” he asked anxiously. “Did he hurt you?” He held out his hand, and I staggered to my feet.
“I’m okay.” I glared at McCarthy, now grappling with Colonel Windstrom as the security guard struggled to part them.
Suddenly the room went black. For an instant, I thought I’d been hit over the head. Then a woman screamed, and a child started wailing. A figure pushed past me, sending me reeling into a display case. My thigh bashed into the sharp corner of the case, and I fought back tears. A string of obscenities erupted from what sounded like Colonel Windstrom. The security guard yelled, “Who turned the lights off? Turn them back on right now!”
“I’m outta here!” a voice cried, accompanied by running footsteps.
“He’s getting away!” a woman shrieked.
“I’ll get him!” Jim’s deep voice rang out from across the room, and another set of footsteps echoed. The door banged shut just as the light flashed on. Emmett stood in the doorway, his hand on the light switch. He stared in dismay at the wreck of the Civil War exhibit.
A glass-fronted display case lay upended on its side, with shards of glass scattered over the letters that spilled out onto the floor. Portraits dangled sideways on the wall. Colonel McDowell’s uniform lay sprawled on the floor like a casualty of battle. In the corner by the column stood an empty mahogany table. I gasped.
Angeline was gone!
Chapter Three
“He’s taken her,” I cried. “Angeline’s gone!”
The security guard struggled to his feet and hobbled over to me. A trickle of blood snaked down his face.
“Who’s Angelina?” he barked. “Your little girl? That bastard . . .” He whirled clumsily, pulling out his portable radio.
“No!” I grabbed his arm. “Angeline. The doll on display. That photographer took pictures of her, and now she’s gone.
He must have stolen her.” I glanced over my shoulder. Colonel Windstrom had also disappeared.
The security guard called out in a commanding voice, “Nobody leaves this room until the police get here!”
* * *
The police questioning took forever. A bunch of cops fanned out through the Grand Hall, searching for clues. The lead investigator, a big man with a gleaming bald head who introduced himself as Officer Carson, instructed patrons and museum staff to sit on folding chairs near the wall and wait for an officer to interview us. I got Carson himself.
Carson wanted every detail on the fight about the camera, and everything I’d noticed about Angeline—her position in the display case, how close I’d been to her, who else was nearby. He probed me relentlessly about the figure that had brushed past me in the dark. “Was the person male or female? Bigger than you? Did you smell anything on him—cigarette smoke? Garlic breath? Aftershave? Did he say anything? Make any sound?”
I shook my head in bewilderment. If I’d known I’d end up as a star witness to a crime, I would have paid more attention. But it didn’t seem like too much of a mystery—the impudent McCarthy and Colonel Windstrom were prime suspects in my book.
“A tall guy with long, messy brown hair, wearing a big old flannel shirt,” a voice droned. Startled, I looked around—was she talking about Pete? It was the young mother, sitting in a nearby chair with little Colin cradled in her lap, fast asleep. Another policeman squatted at her side, notebook in hand.
“He slunk around the room looking at stuff, just like he was casing the joint,” she continued. “You should have seen his eyes—looked like he’d just busted out of prison or something. He was with that woman.” The young mother’s accusing finger pointed straight at me. “They were both leaning over, looking at that doll. I saw them.”
I flinched. Carson watched silently, missing nothing. Emmett McDowell stood by the door, arms crossed, a stern frown on his face. His eyes glinted with malice—he was obviously enjoying the prospect of identifying Pete as the doll thief.
“Ask her,” the young mother shrilled. “Ask her where her boyfriend’s gone with that doll!”
Carson turned his full attention to me, but before he could speak, another voice broke in. This time it was one of the elderly women on my other side.
“I heard him say there was money hidden inside the doll. That’s why he took it.” She shook her head. “He ought to be ashamed.”
“He didn’t take anything,” I cried. All eyes turned toward me. I was surrounded.
“You know this man?” Carson asked, flipping to a new page in his notebook.
“He’s my brother. Pete Dembrowski. He was looking at the doll because I pointed her out to him.”
“Aha!” the young mother cried. Colin stirred and whimpered in her lap.
“I’m a seamstress,” I told Carson. “I sew dolls and doll dresses. I was looking at Angeline to see how she was made. She’s a beautiful doll.”
“See,” the young mother cried. “She calls the doll by name. Is that normal?”
“Her name’s right on the card next to her,” I snapped. “You’re supposed to look at things in a museum. That doesn’t mean you’re setting up a robbery or something!”
“Calm down now, ma’am,” Carson said coldly. “Where’s your brother now?”
“He had to leave early.” I tried to block out the anxious look on Pete’s face as he left. “He didn’t tell me where he was going. But surely it was that photographer or Colonel Windstrom who took Angeline.”
“What’s this about money in the doll?” Carson went on as if he hadn’t heard me.
“Pete said sometimes people hid valuables inside dolls. He’d heard some story about that recently. He wondered if there was anything inside Angeline. But that doesn’t mean . . .”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Emmett snapped. “There’s nothing but sawdust inside that doll. Don’t you think we’d know about any money?”
Carson ignored this outburst, focusing all his attention on me. “Where can I reach your brother, Ms. Dembrowski? I need to ask him a few questions.”
“I want to press charges.” Emmett puffed out his cheeks and glared at me. “That doll is priceless to my family. Dembrowski blames me for his pitiful failures in Hollywood. He’s grabbing any chance he can get to hurt me.”
Carson regarded him coldly. “I’m sure we’ll press charges, when we know who to charge.” He turned his piercing gaze back to me.
I gulped. I hated the thought of siccing the cops on Pete, especially if that was what Emmett wanted.
“Where can I reach your brother?” Carson repeated.
“You can try his cell phone.” I gave him the number.
Carson’s eyes never left my face as he pulled out his phone and dialed. We could all hear the ringing echoing in the silent room.
“He’s not picking up,” Carson said, continuing to lock eyes with me.
“I’m sorry.” I wanted to say, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ but I didn’t think it would go down too well with Carson and Emmett, or the vigilante women hovering around me. Why did I feel like such a criminal?
“So, where does your brother live?” He’d asked straight out—no way to avoid the question or skirt around the edges.
“He’s staying with me.” I gave him my address. “I’m sure he didn’t take Angeline . . .” But no one was listening to me.
* * *
I stood on the sidewalk outside the museum, waiting for the bus. Darn Pete—he should have stuck around to drive me home. Then he could have answered Carson’s questions for himself, and I wouldn’t have to cover for him. Why did I feel like I needed to cover up something, anyway? I remembered my high school counselor interrogating me about Pete’s whereabouts during a rash of vandalism at the school. My first instinct had been to swear that he’d gone bowling with me the whole afternoon, before I even knew if he needed an alibi or not. Not, as it turned out.
Jim Laker pulled up to the curb in a silver Jaguar. “Daria! Hang on just a minute, please, I want to talk to you.” He hopped out of the car. “You’re still here. Are you okay?”
“I had to talk to the police,” I said. “Did you catch that photographer?”
Jim shook his head. “I ran after him and hollered, but he didn’t stop. He jumped in a car and took off. I followed him, but he’s a maniac driver—I couldn’t keep up.” He shrugged. “I’m sure they’ll pick him up at the newspaper.”
“Was he carrying anything? Like a doll?”
“A doll?” Jim’s face screwed up in puzzlement.
“That big doll on the table, Angeline, is missing. Someone took her when the lights were out.” I squeezed my hands together. “Oh, Jim, the cops think it was my brother, Pete!”
Jim strode toward me and wrapped his warm hands around mine. “This is awful,” he said. “Why would your brother steal an old doll?”
“Someone heard him ask if there were any valuables hidden inside it. That’s why they think he took it.” My voice trembled. “But I’m sure he didn’t.”
Jim squeezed my hands reassuringly. “Of course he didn’t take it. I’m sure it’s all a mistake. Where is he now?”
“I don’t know—he left before the big fight. He probably went home. The cops are looking for him.” I spied the bus approaching and pulled my hands free. “I’ve got to go.”
Jim dropped his hands. “I should go in and talk to the police,” he said. “Can I call you tomorrow, to see how things are going?”
I nodded and scribbled my number on the business card he held out to me. As I handed the card back to Jim, I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure lurking in the museum doorway. In the dim light, I could just make out the sheen from Emmett McDowell’s expensive serge suit. He’d make a lousy spy, I thought, and climbed the steps to the bus.
Sometimes a crowded bus provides the best solitude of all. I squeezed into a seat next to a heavyset woman with a
lap full of overflowing grocery bags and fixed my eyes on the ad posted above the windows: “Foster the Future, Become a Foster Parent.” Chaotic images flashed through my mind: Colonel Windstrom’s contentious accusations, Emmett’s sneering that drove Pete to stalk away, the flash of the obnoxious photographer’s camera, the little mahogany table, that now stood empty in the corner of the room. I closed my eyes, trying to still my thoughts. As the disturbing images receded, a picture of Jim Laker filled my mind: his deep brown eyes, his warm smile as he talked about the Civil War, the fleeting touch of his lips on my hand. I brushed my fingertips on the back of my right hand. Was it Jim Merrick, the Civil War character, or Jim Laker, the twenty-first century accountant, whom I wanted to get to know better? I raked my fingernails across my hand, hard enough to leave red streaks. What was I thinking? One man had just disappeared from my life, and I was already on the lookout for a new one? What kind of a fool was I? I’d be better off focusing on my historical sewing business and leaving my heart well out of it. I sighed hard enough to stir the plastic bags piled up beside me and shifted my gaze to the street outside. I was almost home.
The cops had gotten there before me. Two police cars were parked on the street in front of the house. Even though it was almost midnight, lights blazed from every window. At least I didn’t hear the band playing.
I walked up the steps and stopped dead on the front porch. I didn’t want to go in and face whatever was happening inside. Pete obviously had things going on that he wasn’t telling me. He’d lost his job seven months earlier, and offered no explanation about what he’d been doing since. Evidently Emmett could fill in the blanks, with his tale that was “not for the kiddos.” I was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear it either. I took a deep breath and opened the front door.
Uniformly Dead Page 4