“Makes sense.” I’d gotten as much as I could from him about Sari, so I changed the subject. “How’s work going?”
Sam looked at me out of the corner of his eye to see if I was being sarcastic. It was no secret that I thought his resigning the police force was a huge mistake, especially to join Black Hound Construction.
He saw I was asking in earnest, and he brightened a bit. “Work’s awesome. It’s good, honest work, Gemma. Campbell is a great man. He’s got big plans for Cedar Valley, for this whole area. Progressive plans.”
“Like what?”
“Well, take the museum. Under Campbell’s stewardship it could become a real tourist mecca. A genuine money maker. Cedar Valley’s dying, Gemma, whether you see it or not. Ten years from now, unless we innovate, we’ll be a joke, a pit stop on the highway,” Sam said. “We have to capitalize on whatever we can. For us, that’s our mining history and our ski resort.”
We reached the trailhead and our cars.
“It’s good to see you, Gemma. Let me know if I can be of further help. If you narrow down a time for Sari’s death, I’m sure I’ll have an alibi.”
“I doubt that will be necessary, Sam. You know I have to follow up on all leads. You’re not a suspect.”
“Not yet, anyway,” he said with a tight smile as he pulled out of the parking lot.
Chapter Thirty
As I walked back to my car, I passed James Curry’s used and rare bookshop. Nothing pointed to him as a suspect in either of my murder investigations and yet, like Larry Bornstein, Curry had worked with both Betty Starbuck and Sari Chesney. He’d also worked on the Rayburn Diary and, if Bornstein had told me the truth, was interested in buying or borrowing it.
I entered the store, a tinny bell announcing my arrival.
Dusty stained-glass windows let in weak light. Curry had a small selection of new books in the store’s front windows, but the bulk of the inventory was made up of used books of all kinds: paperbacks, hardcovers, children’s books, even textbooks. The store smelled of dead air and cat urine, and I wasn’t at all surprised to see an enormous tabby lounging on the floor, his big head resting on a battered copy of the Oxford English Dictionary.
Curry himself was seated behind the counter. He rose quickly, his chair scraping along the floor as an electric tea kettle behind him whistled. He switched it off, then turned to me. He was a short man, about sixty years old, with broad shoulders and bowed legs. He wore rimless tinted eyeglasses, a scraggly goatee, and a sweater with moth holes in the sleeves. His eyes were small and pale and they moved over my face quickly and frantically, like a mouse staring down a cat.
I introduced myself. “I understand that you worked with both Betty Starbuck and Sari Chesney.”
“Terrible, terrible business. I didn’t know Sari all that well. But I’ve worked with Betty, and others at the museum, for years now. She was a lovely woman.” Curry wiped at his nose with the sleeve of his sweater and stared at me. “Now. What do you want with me?”
“I have some questions about Owen Rayburn’s diary.”
Before I could go further, Curry let out a loud moan. “Don’t remind me about that, please. I haven’t slept a wink since the gala. If only they’d let me keep it here, I’d have kept it safe, secure. That’s my life’s work, you see … keeping priceless artifacts like that safe.”
“Most people I’ve talked to blame Betty Starbuck for the diary’s disappearance; her, or Sari Chesney.”
“Yes, but should they? Those on the shore always blame the captain when the ship goes down. The rats know to jump ship before it leaves the dock.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “What are you saying?”
Instead of answering, he scuttled to the far end of the counter, dove into a file cabinet, then remerged with a sheaf of papers in his hand and hurried back to me.
“Look at these.”
I held them close to my face, then moved them back a few inches and squinted. I’d left my reading glasses back at the office. Curry noticed and, with a flourish, handed me a pair from a tray of glasses for sale.
“Thanks,” I said, discreetly brushing off a wad of orange cat fur. Even with the glasses, it took a few minutes for me to realize what I was looking at. “It’s a map, isn’t it? Of the valley? But why is everything mixed up on it? I see the river, the mountains … but none of it is in the correct location.”
Curry nodded, pleased. He said smugly, “I photocopied those pages from Owen Rayburn’s diary. Do you notice anything else strange?”
Looking closer, I saw what appeared to be tiny symbols strewn about the map.
“These little arrows, or are they trees? What do they mean? What kind of map is this?”
Curry stared at me. “It’s a treasure map.”
“Come on.” I burst out laughing. “You’re a believer, too, huh? These hills have been tapped out for years. There is no secret vein of gold or stash of silver. Next you’ll tell me that you too think the diary is cursed.”
“I can’t speak to a curse.” Curry snatched the pages out of my hands and scowled. “It is a treasure map. The problem is that it’s all in code. And the cipher is in that diary.”
“You’re a clever man. I have to imagine that if you photocopied some pages from the diary, you photocopied them all.”
The little man gave me another sly look from the side of his eye. “Now who’s the clever one? Of course I did. I was just doing my job, making sure I had pages lined up, that sort of thing. But you see, I’ve come to believe the key to the cipher is actually somewhere in or on the diary’s cover. Which I neglected to photograph.”
“What exactly had you been hired to do?”
Curry removed his glasses and wiped at them with his sweater, taking his time to answer. When he put the glasses back on, they were just as smeared and greasy as before. “I was tasked with a number of things. First, establishing provenance. Was this truly Owen Rayburn’s diary and not a fake? It had been in the basement of the museum for decades. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that it was authentic … but it’s best practice to establish this totally and definitively. Second, was it in good enough condition to go on display? Was it legible, free of mildew and mold, that sort of thing? You can’t put something out that’s disintegrating. And third, I was asked to type out the contents. I believe the plan was to eventually digitize the whole thing. You know, put the diary online, on the museum’s website. Having me do it, as opposed to the museum volunteers or staff, helped limit the number of fingers in the pie, so to speak.”
“Who did you work with on the project? Sari Chesney?”
“No, Sari was strictly in charge of the curating side of things. I reported directly to Betty.”
“Do you think the murders and the missing diary are connected?”
Curry shuddered. “Now there’s an awful thought. If the diary was stolen with the intent to sell, there’s a very small market for it. A black market, if you will. As I understand it, Betty was killed after the diary went missing.”
“What other purpose would someone have to steal it, other than to sell it?”
At that Curry smiled a humorless smile. “There’s an equally small market for collectors of that sort of thing.”
It was the same thing Larry Bornstein had said.
Before I could respond, the bell over the shop’s front door chimed and we both turned to watch a young man and woman come in. They blinked in the dim light, then moved to the textbook section.
“So you truly believe there is treasure out there?”
Licking his lips, Curry nodded. “What exactly it is, I couldn’t say. Gold, silver … There are rumors that at least one Spanish conquistador made it this far north. Perhaps there are gemstones, valuable emeralds or rubies.”
“Do you have Advanced Chemistry?” the young man shouted toward us. “Or Calculus?”
“I’ll be right there,” Curry shouted back. To me, he said in a low voice, “I’m not the only one interested in that dia
ry. You should talk to the black hound.”
“Alistair Campbell?”
Curry nodded, a glint in his eyes. “He offered me quite a lot of money for a copy of these pages.”
“Did you take the money?”
Curry stepped back and moved toward the young couple. “What I do and don’t do is my business. I think I’ve ‘shared’ enough with you, Detective.”
“I can get a warrant for the information I need, Mr. Curry.”
“Then do so!” he whispered furiously, and made a shooing motion at me.
As I walked to my car, I chewed on a cuticle. Alistair Campbell’s name had a funny way of popping up in my murder investigations.
Perhaps it was time I paid him a visit.
Chapter Thirty-one
As I drove north to Campbell’s office, I noticed a black sedan with tinted windows and mud-smeared license plates following me. The sedan hung a few cars back, but it turned when I turned and changed lanes as I did. The driver was clearly an amateur and, while I could have lost the tail, I decided not to screw around. Instead, I cursed myself for forgetting to run the partial license plate number I’d collected outside of Jake Stephens’s house and then pulled a sudden right turn. It might not have gotten me very far, but it would have been a start.
Three cars back, the black sedan made the same turn, moving slowly, cautiously.
Thinking quickly, I ran through options. It was Friday, and the roads were already heavy with people cutting out of work early and parents hustling for carpool pick-up. I could use the traffic to my advantage.
Approaching a streetlight, I slowed my speed. The black sedan had moved up and was now two cars behind me. Perfect. As the light changed from green to yellow, I increased my speed and moved through the intersection before the light changed again to red. Then I quickly made a series of right turns.
In a matter of minutes, I was four cars behind the black sedan, smiling grimly as it slowly cruised down the road, its driver obviously scanning the side streets for me. I slapped my dash light and siren on and, one by one, the cars between us moved to the side.
After a brief moment during which time I wondered if the black sedan was seriously going to attempt to flee, the driver pulled over and killed the engine. I lifted my radio microphone and spoke through it, glad I was in a department vehicle and not my personal car.
“Get out of the car with your hands in the air. Now.”
After a long minute, the driver’s-side door opened and Bryce Ventura of The Valley Voice clambered out, his face red and sweaty, his blue jeans caked with long streaks of blood.
* * *
“It’s not blood. It’s Glossy Currant. I’m painting old lady Washburn’s master bedroom,” Ventura whined. “She’s going for a bordello effect.”
“You think I give two hoots about Janet Washburn’s brothel bedroom?”
“Bordello. Not brothel. There’s a difference,” Ventura said smugly. “See, in the bordello—”
“Shut up. Why are you following me?”
Ventura hung his head. We stood on the side of the road between our two vehicles. Passing cars slowed to check out the drama, and I could see he was embarrassed. He rubbed his hands together and started to speak.
“And don’t lie to me. I’ll know if you’re lying, and your day will get a whole lot worse.”
Ventura nodded, and his ebony black hair moved like it was an entity separate from his head. “Okay, okay. I was following you. You’re working the two hottest cases in town, Monroe. I want the scoop.”
I glowered. “Seems to me you’re already getting the scoop, Ventura. Who’s your source in the department?”
“Huh?”
“Have you got peas in your ears? Who is sharing confidential information with you?”
“Ah, that. Well … you know I can’t tell you that.” Ventura’s expression grew smug. “Journalistic integrity and all.”
I waited until a group of giggling, gawking middle-school children on the sidewalk had passed us, then took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “Have you ever considered the damage you might be doing to an active investigation when you prematurely include information in your articles? What if a killer goes free because he’s been tipped off by something you write?”
Ventura chewed his lip. “If a killer goes free, that’s on you, not me.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, it’s true,” Ventura insisted. “It’s up to you to get these guys before a prosecutor with enough evidence for a conviction. It’s up to me to keep the citizenry informed.”
“Spare me the philosophical debate, Ventura. I read your article this morning. Prematurely naming a person of interest, which is exactly what you did, jeopardizes everything. This is still America. We still adhere to the fundamental belief that a person is innocent until proven guilty. You practically tried and convicted Kent Starbuck with a few—poorly written, by the way—sentences. Now who’s your damn source?”
Ventura seemed to feed off my anger and grew smarmier with each word. “Tit for tat, Monroe. If you promise me a scoop when you catch the Museum Murderer, I’ll give you two clues who my informant is. That’s the best I can do and still walk away with my integrity intact.”
Surprised, I found myself considering his offer. When we caught the killer or killers, Ventura would write about it anyway. What did it matter if he got the scoop, as long as I was that much closer to catching the leaker? My anger and frustration at him, and at the leaker, began to fade at the prospect of some answers.
“Deal.”
He grinned, and I felt as though I’d just struck a bargain with the devil. Ventura rubbed his hands together, excited. He thought a few minutes, then said, “Your first clue is this: what gets hit over and over and keeps coming back for more?”
“Ventura, that’s a goddamn riddle. You can forget about the scoop.”
He scoffed. “And you can forget about your second clue. Now, Detective, am I under arrest? I have a bordello bedroom to finish painting.”
“Get out of here. Don’t let me catch you following me again. Nothing more than an ambulance chaser,” I muttered, and walked back to my car. I climbed in and slammed the door, equally furious and curious.
What gets hit over and over and keeps coming back for more?
What gets hit … a boxer? Finn boxed in his free time. He and ten other guys in the department.
I started the car and pulled away from the curb, struck by a sudden, disturbing thought.
What if the leaker was more than one person?
* * *
I checked my watch and saw I’d missed lunch by hours. I headed to a drive-through and ordered a vanilla milkshake and a chicken sandwich with a side of fries, remembering Clementine’s dire prediction for my health. Parking in the lot, I scarfed the food down and then continued on to Alistair Campbell’s offices.
I’d seen him across the room at the gala, but it had been months since I’d last actually spoken to Campbell, and my opinion of him remained unchanged: I was suspicious of his motives, pure and simple. On the surface, he appeared to be a generous contractor, giving ex-convicts a second chance through legitimate employment with his company, Black Hound Construction. Cedar Valley was small potatoes, though, and I believed he had ulterior motives, still to be seen, for being here.
Campbell rented a suite of rooms on the third floor of a law firm on the north side of town. There, a receptionist took my name and then spoke to Campbell on her phone. After a moment, she hung up and directed me down a short hallway to a closed door with Campbell’s name on a discreet placard next to it.
I knocked, then slowly swung the door open.
Campbell sat behind a heavy-looking oak desk, and I took a moment to glance over the surroundings. On the wall behind him were bookshelves lined with what appeared to be legal tomes and complete sets of revised statutes going back dozens of years. A vase of drooping pink tulips, a black telephone, and an overturned glass were the only items on the des
k.
Campbell was as he always was: impeccably dressed, his thick white hair flowing back from his temples like a lion’s mane. His face lit up when he saw me.
“My, my, it’s been a while.”
I nodded to him. “Mr. Campbell.”
“You’ve got yourself a new scar, I see,” Campbell said. I resisted the urge to tuck my arm behind my back; in my short-sleeved blouse, the straight narrow slice down my forearm was a visible souvenir from a run-in I’d had with a fire poker brandished by a murderer in a previous case. The damaged tissue had faded from angry red to vulnerable pink.
Something suddenly moved in the overturned glass on Campbell’s desk, and I peered closer. A black spider crawled to the far side of the glass and angrily beat its forelegs against its prison wall.
“Black widow. They aren’t nearly as deadly to humans as their name and reputation suggest.”
Campbell lifted the glass.
The spider scurried across the desk, gaining six inches of freedom, before Campbell lowered the glass once more.
I took a step back. “What are you doing with it?”
“Doing with it? Nothing. I caught it this morning, and now I’m faced with a moral dilemma. Should I kill it? Or release it and risk someone getting hurt? I’m curious, what would you do?”
“Kill it.”
“Perhaps I’ll go that route. Or perhaps I’ll keep it, as a pet. I’m sure my employees would get a kick out of a new mascot.”
I took a seat in one of the two chairs on the opposite side of the desk, choosing the one farthest from the trapped spider. “What’s your interest in the history museum?”
“That’s my girl.” Campbell smiled widely and tented his fingers. “Right to the heart of the matter, without preamble. I respect that, I truly do. Terrible about Mrs. Starbuck. The last time I saw her was the night of the gala. In fact, I’ve just gotten off the phone with a marvelous young man, an intern with your police force. I regret I didn’t catch his name. As I told him, I didn’t notice anything amiss that night. Though now I understand there’s been a second death? Another museum employee?”
Lost Lake Page 21