4 - Stranger Room: Ike Schwartz Mystery 4

by Frederick Ramsay

  “No furniture?”

  “No. I need a different key for the clock. This one doesn’t fit.”

  She opened the case and tried the key, with the same results Ike had the previous night. She retrieved a box from under the counter and rummaged through a pound of clock keys.

  Ike’s eyebrows raised a bit, “Where’d you get all those?” he asked.

  “I’ve been collecting old hardware for years. Even before I had this shop, I had a little business matching keys, locks, hinges and so forth. I made some money at that.”

  “I’ll tell Jonathan Lydell. He’s restoring that old place of his and could use some help in that department, I imagine.”

  “No need, but thank you, anyway. Jonathan is a regular.”

  “He buys clock keys?”

  “Clock, door, all kinds. You name it. The last time he came in, he wanted a key for an old travel trunk he had in his basement or attic, I don’t remember which. And I wouldn’t call Bellmore ‘that old place,’ at least not within his hearing. It’s an historic building, and in the register as such, and he insists everyone know that.”

  “I read the plaque on the wall, sorry, you’re right, but relics of the past, animate or inanimate, are not a passion of mine.”

  “What do you call all those old movies you collect, if not relics of the past?”

  “They are classics. Bogart, Cagney, Rita Hayworth, Hedy Lamar are not relics, they are treasures.”

  “Right-oh, and if you plan to stick with your lady love, you may have to change your tune about houses and history. She is an historian, after all. Here…” Betsy fitted a device into the clock and gave it a series of turns.

  “That doesn’t look like a key.”

  “It’s a winder.” She held up the crank-like device. “See, it has a square hole in the end that fits over the winding stem. It’s like a key that way, only with this little crank handle you can wind it more quickly, and with less strain on your fingers when it gets tight.”

  “I’ve seen one of those before…speak of the devil…Lydell had one like that mixed up in a box of rusty keys in his basement. Only it was bigger.”

  “Probably used to wind a cabinet clock, a grandfather clock. He owns at least three. Did I tell you, he wanted me to furnish some of the rooms in Bellmore?”

  “That would be a nice sale.”

  “Oh, no, he wasn’t planning on paying for the furniture. He wanted me to place pieces in the rooms, as advertising. He said I could leave my business card on the pieces and if anyone wanted to buy it, they could contact me.”

  “Very generous of him. I’m guessing here, but I bet he wanted a piece of the sale, too.”

  “You guess right. Okay, your clock is wound and I’ve set the striker. If you need to reset it, you see this wire thingy in back of the works? Well, you push it up and count out the strikes to match the hour you have set.”

  “I got it.”

  “Good. My best to the lovely Ms. Harris. When are the two of you coming to dinner?”

  “You need to talk to her. She’s the one with the unmanageable schedule and time problems.”

  “You know, when most of this furniture was made, people lived at a more leisurely pace, and still had time to hold balls, give parties, and fight a bloody civil war.”

  “You’re planning on throwing a ball, or starting a war?”

  “It’s an idea. Not the war part. We could do a costume thing. Women in hoop skirts, men in antebellum dress suits. All Gone With the Wind, or something.”

  “And the folks serving the punch?”

  “Oh, yeah, can’t go there anymore, I guess. Well, it was a thought. Maybe we should do the roaring twenties. Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, all that jazz. Better?”

  “Better. Well, tempus fugit.”

  “And also with you.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry, inside church joke. Ask the Reverend Blake Fisher.”

  She watched, as Ike laid the clock carefully in the trunk of his car next to the riot gear, a collection of crumpled paper coffee cups, and a change of clothes she guessed he must keep handy for those days when things really went south.

  Chapter 12

  Jonathan Lydell riffled through the file case again. There was no doubt about it, pages were missing. A great many pages. Who could have taken them? The only person with access to his study was his daughter. Well, that was not, strictly speaking, true. Henry, that boy with the ridiculous hair and tattoos, came in and out from time to time. His brother worked in the sheriff’s office, of all things. One of that tiresome Sutherlin woman’s brood. Why that new Vicar let her kind run wild in his church never ceased to amaze him. It seemed impossible to him that so much had changed in the past forty years. The sheriff’s tone of voice still rankled. In the past, people like that Schwartz person would show some respect for a Lydell. The fact that Schwartz was Jewish only confirmed his despair over the sad pass the country had come to.

  “Martha Marie,” he shouted, “have you been rummaging through my papers again?”

  No response from the second floor. He tried again, with the same results. “Drunk at…” He checked his watch and returned it to its nesting place in his pocket. “…Three in the afternoon.” He sighed, and wondered again about Henry Sutherlin, and whether a boy like that would steal papers. There were more valuable things in the room and in plain sight. Not likely he’d steal documents. He’d have to read them first, and he was barely literate. Still, you never knew with these sharecroppers’ descendants. An untrustworthy and sly group, never loyal, the last to enlist, the first to surrender. He wondered if the sheriff would be interested enough in his files to send that red-haired idiot in to steal them. He doubted it, but decided to make some discreet inquires.

  “If those papers were to fall into the wrong hands, my books, my life’s work, everything, could be destroyed. I could be…”

  “Daddy, did you call me just now?” Martha Marie stood in the doorway, swaying a little. She put out her hand on the door jamb to steady herself.

  “Yes, I did. I wanted to know if you’d been in my papers again.”

  “Papers? What papers would that be? You mean your research papers. The stories you tell yourself about how we won the war.”

  “You are drunk. It’s barely three in the afternoon and you are three sheets to the wind.”

  “Momma used to get there by noon.”

  “Your mother drank no spirits stronger than a little sherry, on special occasions. How dare you speak of her that way?”

  “She was in her cups after breakfast, Daddy. You were always too busy being a Lydell, being the lord of the manor, to even notice. It was how she escaped.”

  “Escaped? Escaped from what, may I ask? You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Martha Marie reeled to the sideboard and poured herself another three fingers of amber liquid, which she tossed off in one quick gulp. “From you,” she said, and sprawled on the couch. “She couldn’t stand listening to you go on and on about good genes and bad. She said if she heard one more lecture on breeding, or about the gentry and the common folk, she’d fetch the bird gun and shoot herself. She never did, just drank. She’d fix breakfast, send us off to school and hit the vodka.”

  “She did nothing of the sort. You are drunk and mistaken.”

  “You got the drunk part right. We’ll see about who’s mistaken.” Martha Marie proceeded to pass out. She wouldn’t stay that way long. But for now, her drinking had formed a solid wall between them, protecting her from the inevitable tongue lashing her father would have bestowed on her, had she attempted sobriety on a permanent basis.

  Lydell glared at her for several minutes. He wished her gone from his presence. Dead would be better. After all he had done for her, and now this…this…He slammed the file box shut and stalked from the room.

  After a few minutes had passed, Martha Marie cocked one eye open, stood, and shuffled to the desk.

  Too late t
o replace the papers in the box. He’d already searched there. She paused and then, a sly smile lighted her face. She slid a sheaf of papers under the blotter on his desk. Her father had a habit of doing that when people came into the room, unexpectedly. Satisfied, she refilled her glass and slipped away.

  ***

  “How’s your hand?”

  “What?”

  “Dr. Harris, you poked your hand with a pencil yesterday, remember? I asked how it was.”

  “It’s fine, Agnes. Thank you. The sheriff says it may turn into a tattoo.”

  Agnes lifted an eyebrow and turned to leave the office with the mail to be filed.

  “Agnes, can I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Sit down. It’s a little personal.”

  Agnes perched on the edge of one or the other of two crewel upholstered chairs opposite. Ike, when he visited, would usually slouch in one or the other. That’s how Ruth remembered him. The first time he’d visited, she’d chewed him out royally. She blushed at the memory. How wrong she’d been. The second time he’d come into the office, it was her turn to receive a verbal spanking. She thought that if she ever had to leave Callend, she’d ask for the chairs as part of her severance package.

  “Yes?” Agnes still held her dictation pad in her hand.

  “What, exactly, do you have against Sheriff Schwartz that makes you dislike him so much?”

  “I never said I did.”

  “Never said, but action, Agnes, action speaks louder than…whatever.”

  “Well, as long as we are being personal, I believe your behavior, your actions, are causing a major scandal on the campus. What sort of example do you suppose you set for the girls when you openly sleep around with that…well, that man?”

  Ruth’s face reddened. She’d always admired Agnes, appreciated her willingness to shield her from the endless intrusions visited on her office and time. She thought of her as efficient, smart, and loyal. On the last item, she discovered, it appeared she’d been wrong and felt betrayed.

  The two women faced each other, each waiting for the other to continue.

  “By ‘that man’ you mean what, precisely?”

  “Nothing. Only that he is not the sort of companion I would choose, and I think your faculty and the girls feel the same.”

  “They are young women, not girls, and fully capable of assessing the circumstances of my relationship, without prejudice as, it appears, you are not.”

  It was Agnes’ turn to turn red. “If my presence is not wanted…”

  “Agnes, you and I have been together a long time. You came with me when I accepted this job. You, better than anyone else, know my faults and, God forgive me, my past, including, I should add, past relationships. You were fine with them then, at least you never said anything. Why now, all of a sudden, are you acting like a South American duenna, watching over some sixteen-year-old virgin? You know that I am neither. So what’s the problem?”

  Agnes lowered her head and said nothing. Ruth, whose patience was already worn thin by work, rumors, and several important postponed decisions, slapped the desk with her hand, and sent another pencil spinning in the air. This time no trauma accompanied the gesture. One serendipitous tattoo was enough.

  “Agnes, say something, for God’s sake. You act as though I have become the town tramp, or worse, a Hollywood celebrity. Speak to me.”

  Agnes removed a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose. She sounded like a kitten sneezing. The scent of lilies of the valley wafted toward Ruth from the cloth, which transported her back in time. She hadn’t seen a hanky up a woman’s sleeve since her maiden aunt from Muncie came to visit, and that was in a previous century.

  “President Harris,” she began.

  “For heaven’s sake, Agnes, we’ve known each other since God made dirt. Call me Ruth.”

  “Oh well, then that’s the thing you see?”

  “See? See what. No, sorry, I don’t.”

  “We’ve been together for all those years and this is the first time you’ve ever asked me to call you by your Christian name. I’m always Agnes. Agnes, do this, Agnes, do that. And I am happy to do it. I think you may be the most remarkable woman I know but—”

  “But I take you for granted, and just once in a while, you’d like to be taken into my confidence. After all these years. Is that it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Is that why you give me a hard time about Ike…Mr. Schwartz?”

  “That’s part of it. I guess.”

  “And the other part?”

  “Some poet said we should see ourselves as others see us.”

  “Robert Burns said something like that, yes.”

  “How does it look? I mean you are the president of the college, and you are acting like the naughty teenager you just said you weren’t. What were you thinking? Sneaking around with a policeman. ‘Shacking up.’ What do you imagine people are saying about you?”

  “Agnes, I—”

  “Gracious, I don’t care about your love life. I never have. Maybe in the past, I even envied you a little, but this is so…blatant. Don’t you see? You are not one of the girls…women…you are the president of the college.”

  Ruth sat, mouth open, in mild shock. Agnes rarely said more than a half dozen words on any subject. And, in this instance, she knew she had it right. One’s private life should be that. And when she labored, as a professor or as a department chair, she had one. But now, she was in the public eye twenty-four seven. No wonder…

  “Then there is the other thing.”

  “The other thing?”

  “I’m older than you, President Harris…Ruth, and grew up in south Baltimore, Pigtown. We…we had certain feelings about certain people.”

  “Certain people meaning Jews?”

  Agnes hung her head again. “I’m sorry. It’s just…well he really is a nice enough man, but with my being angry about everything, well, I’m a little…”

  “Pissed?”

  “Yes, pissed,” Agnes made a wry face that could have passed for a smile and rubbed her hand across the rough fabric on the chair’s arm, “and I just let those old feelings come out to hurt you, I guess. I’m sorry.”

  “Not sorry, Agnes. We should have had this talk a long time ago. And you are correct to tell me. I was so caught up in…well caught up will do…and I lost sight of things. Will you do me a favor now?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “The situation around here is going to turn into a zoo in the next few weeks. I need protection and I need a means of escape from time to time. Will you help me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Escape with Schwartz, Agnes.”

  Agnes gulped and smiled. “With the sheriff, for your protection. When things get zooey, you need your own personal cop. Is that it?”

  “It’ll do. Let’s you and me blow this joint and go out to lunch.”

  Chapter 13

  Henry Sutherlin stretched, braced his shoulders, and mopped his newly shaven head. He had only three more sections to split into firewood. A light breeze blew across the yard and carried the sour odor of newly hewn oak along with it. The cord he’d already chopped sat neatly stacked against the fence. By fall, it would be dry and ready for burning. Lydell was particular about his firewood. He liked a twenty-eighty mix of soft and hard. Henry had carefully mixed the pine and apple with the oak lengths so that no matter how Lydell gathered his logs for the day, he’d get the correct combination.

  Henry licked his thumb and ran it carefully across the cutting edge of his axe. He was particular about that. Lydell supplied him with axe and wedges, but Henry brought his own to work. People like Lydell rarely kept their tools in good shape and hadn’t a clue how to hone a workable edge. He set the next piece on end and split it in half. This one was big enough to take down to eighths.

  “Henry? Is that you?”

  Lydell had managed to slip up on him without his notice. He did that a lot.


  “Sir?”

  “When you’re done with that, I’d like a moment with you inside, if you please. What happened to your head?”

  “Gave it a mowing, goatee too, Mr. Lydell. Plan to change my persona.”

  “Your what?”

  “How I look.”

  “I know what persona means, Henry. I’m just surprised you do.”

  “Oh, well, I read a bit…” you old jerk, do you think us ordinary folk are morons or something?“…newspapers, comic books, historical documents and such.”

  Lydell’s face fell into worry. “Do you indeed? Inside when you’re done, then.” He turned and reentered the house.

  Now what’s up with that, Henry wondered, and split the second length.

  ***

  Strange young man, Lydell mused. His persona for God’s sake. What’s he up to? One day he’s the local freak show, the next he’s normal looking, well except for the tattoos, but they don’t show with a long sleeved shirt. Is he working for the sheriff, and if so, why? He sauntered back to his desk and studied his file case. The last book would never be written with those papers out. Someone could always dig up the facts before he could get them down the right way, and then…

  “You wanted to see me?”

  Henry stood at the door. He did look remarkably different without his coxcomb. Almost presentable.

  “Yes, come in. Oh, wipe your feet first. No, maybe you should remove those boots.”

  Henry did as he was told. Lydell noted the unmatched socks, one with a hole in the toe. He did not ask Henry to sit.

  “I am missing some papers, Henry, and I wondered if you had any idea where they might be.”

  “Well, I can’t be sure. What kind of papers would they be?”

  “You mentioned a moment ago that you read historical documents. Those kinds of papers.”

  “Oh, well, I was talking general, sort of. I read the crime reports that come into the house with Billy and sometimes old newspapers. Like, yesterday I dug up the old Staunton Spectator story about the murder in your stranger room back in the big war. ’Course, you know all about that, I reckon.”

  “Are you playing with me, Henry?”