Lochlan Museum: The Case of the Collectible Killer

by Melissa R. L. Simonin

  It was small, like the rest of the house and its furnishings, and filled to the brim with boxes.

  Claire was perfectly happy to live out of her suitcase for the time being. She’d empty the closet, organize, and decide what to do with the contents, after she was through cleaning the entire place top to bottom. Until then, the boxes would serve as reassurance that there was no one hiding inside!

  She never thought of herself as a nervous person exactly, but the presence of the cat had her a little on edge. Not that it was present at the moment, but that it was present in the house that was said to have no inhabitant since the day her grandmother left it, never to return. The attorney said nothing about her grandmother having a cat, either, and that was why Claire hurried back down the hall to her grandmother’s room. She threw open the door, searched under the bed, then investigated the closet.

  Satisfied that she and the cat were alone in the house—barring a possible population of rodents—she closed the door once again, and returned to the room she claimed as her own.

  Now that she wasn’t feeling apprehensive, she noticed the delicate pink, ivory, rosebud, and vine striped wallpaper. The quilt was pieced in soft shades of green, pink, ivory, and a floral rosebud pattern. It was beautiful, and she loved it. The wedding ring design was hardly fitting for the single girl who never even had a real boyfriend, but… new town, new life, who knew who she might meet, or what might happen once she did. And even if she didn’t, she loved the quilt. She wasn’t going to let the name of the pattern rob her of its use. Although, she did intend to take it outside to the clothesline and beat some of the dust out of it, first.

  She stifled another sneeze, then headed back down the stairs, through the entryway and kitchen, to the backdoor.

  The cat sat beside the empty dish, neatly washing his face. He looked satisfied, and well pleased with his world. Claire was glad of that, although his existence in the house was a mystery she’d like to have solved. Maybe once she was moved in and settled, one of the neighbors could tell her something about him.

  Claire opened the door, walked down the concrete steps, and across the basketball court, which reminded her she needed to search for a basketball later. And check out the garage! There was more than cabinets and closets yet to explore.

  In spite of it, she kept herself on track and unlocked and raised the hatchback of her little blue car. Between its storage capacity and her minimal earthly possessions, everything she owned fit inside.

  Everything she owned did fit inside! She was positively wealthy, compared to just two weeks ago. The thought amazed her, filled her with gratitude, and made her feel humble all at the same time.

  Claire dragged out her suitcases from the top of the pile, and carted them inside. It took several trips back and forth from car to house, but at last, all of her belongings of the week before were stacked beside the stairs.

  She locked the backdoor, then rummaged under the kitchen sink.

  Jackpot, she found the cleaning supplies she was hoping for. She lifted the plastic holder and set it on the counter, then set to work searching for cleaning cloths.

  Either the ones in the drawer she found were for that purpose, or… they should be. Claire added them to her collection, then took a second look at the laundry room.

  Leaning against the corner beside the washer was the broom, and a mop. Did her grandmother have a vacuum? If Claire didn’t find one, she’d have to get one. Practically every room had an area rug, and the furniture needed the dust sucked out of it if she didn’t hope to have a sneezing fit every time she sat down.

  On the shelf above the washer and dryer sat a bottle of Tide, a bucket, and… a box of cat litter.

  Claire moved past the washer and dryer, and discovered a covered litter box tucked away in the corner. She knelt a little apprehensively and glanced inside.

  It didn’t appear to need emptied. But then again… if the cat ate nothing during the two months no one was here…

  That didn’t add up satisfactorily, so she looked down at the floor.

  The dust was scuffed so badly, who knew if there were prints other than her own. She walked back into the kitchen and examined it, with the same inconclusive result.

  Claire had much to do, so she picked up the cleaning supply holder, cloths, and broom, and determined to think about that later.

  Such as tonight. She could just see herself lying in bed praying for morning, while every little sound made her jump and wonder.

  She rolled her eyes at herself, and followed the stairs to the second floor. She’d start with her bedroom, and work her way across to the bathroom, and down. It shouldn’t take long to clean the small house. After all, it was just dust.

  Several long hours later, Claire brushed her chin length brown hair behind her ear, and looked around. At least her bedroom was clean! And the bathroom now shone bright.

  She followed the hall back to her bedroom, and was surprised to see the cat reclining regally on her bed. It blinked wisely at her. Claire gave that some thought as she traded in her dust-laden clothing for a dust-free t-shirt and pair of shorts.

  “Well… as long as you don’t mind sharing, I guess it’s okay,” she told him.

  The cat considered that, and moved over about half an inch.

  She laughed, then sat beside him, holding out her hand for his inspection. He took his time, but at last she passed. He rubbed his cheek against her hand, and allowed her the honor of petting him. Soon he was purring with contentment.

  “I’m glad you’re here, cat. I might be lonely, if you weren’t.”

  He, too, was glad to be here. It was his home, after all. Where else would he be?

  Claire took her phone out of her pocket and checked the weather app. It told her nothing about the current weather in Juniper Creek, but it did tell her all about Pine Bluff. She input her new zip code, and the forecast changed to clear skies. She changed the location setting for news, too. She wondered if anything ever happened here that was worthy of reporting, and decided to take a look.

  There was a missing dog, and the owner was desperate to find him. She declared he disappeared from his very own yard. A dog-napper must surely be on the loose.

  Claire felt concerned and saddened by that, but the next item of news made her laugh a little. Three houses down from the yard where the dog disappeared, an identical dog was found. She wondered if that neighborhood was as devoid of fences as her own.

  The third item was a reminder from animal control to leash or otherwise restrain pets, any time they were out of doors. That included their own unfenced backyards.

  Claire laughed again, then moved on to the next item.

  Rather than being particularly sad, or funny, this report was… strange.

  “Why would someone break into a second-hand store?”

  The cat assumed she was talking to him. As he did not know what was a second-hand store, he chose not to respond. Other than to butt her arm with his head. The girl was no longer petting him, and needed encouragement.

  Claire absentmindedly scratched behind the cat’s ears again as she puzzled over the strange burglary. If that’s what it even was. All the report said, was that sometime during the night, Juniper Creek Thrift’s door was kicked in, and the shop ransacked. Many items were destroyed, but whether or not anything was taken was impossible to determine. The neighboring shop owners were worried they would be next, and the police chief wanted to assure the citizens that there would be officers on patrol in that area to prevent further vandalism.

  Claire’s stomach rumbled, reminding her that she skipped lunch. She needed to find something to eat if she wanted to try out the basketball court before the sun set. Since she did, she got up and put her shoes back on, then headed down the stairs to the kitchen.

  She opened the jelly cabinet, which served as the pantry, and searched for something to snack on. She spied the homemade jam, and her heart both thrilled and ached, as she read the label.

  “From the Ki
tchen of Martha Davis.”

  She hesitated, then decided to open it. There was an entire row of jars, and… her grandmother made it. Living in her house and eating the jam she made, was as close to her as she could get.

  Claire retrieved the loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter from the shopping bag she left by the stairs, then found a plate in the cabinet and a knife in the silverware drawer. She made her sandwich, then carried the jam to the refrigerator. She was a little apprehensive as she opened it… but all she found waiting there was a jar of mayonnaise and a bottle of mustard.

  She carried her sandwich outside, and sat on the steps behind the house. In the lot to her right, birds splashed in a bird bath and ate seed from the feeders hanging from the eaves of the back porch. They chirped in the trees at the back of her own yard, and a robin pecked away at something in the lawn.

  Claire thought about her grandmother while she savored her strawberry jam, and wondered if somewhere in the house there was an album. She would find it, if there was. Then maybe she’d know what her grandmother looked like.

  It dawned on her suddenly that she must’ve had a grandfather at some point. If she didn’t lose her own father so long ago, she would know these things. Maybe in the summers, she would’ve visited her grandparents. Maybe…

  She felt a flash of annoyance at her mother again, but it passed.

  Claire carried her plate in, then went back out and looked inside the plastic bin beside the steps. She smiled with satisfaction as she lifted out the basketball it contained. As she turned it over in her hands, she was surprised to find the name Collins written across the ball in black ink. If the name Davis was written there… and if the ball was really old, she’d think it belonged to her father. But the ball looked and smelled new, and the ink barely showed signs of scuffing.

  Maybe her grandmother bought the ball from a garage sale, or thrift store. Maybe whoever Collins was, he seldom used it.

  Rather than puzzle further over that mystery, she dribbled across the court and took a shot. The ball bounced off the backboard, and into the hoop. Claire caught the ball, dribbled some more, aimed, and sent the ball sailing through the hoop again.

  “Nice shot,” she heard behind her, and spun. The guy who stood at the edge of the concrete slab was tall, with dark hair, and could be her age. Maybe a little older. He smiled, and caught the ball as it bounced across the court. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I just got home from work, and saw the car parked in front of the garage… I’m Alec Collins. I live next door.”

  “Oh—hi,” she replied, grasping for her equilibrium. Alec Collins, neighbor, and probable owner of the basketball, didn’t just startle her. He was cute enough to make her stutter. “I, uh—I’m Claire. We’re neighbors, I guess. I just moved in.”

  There was a flicker of surprise in his brown eyes.

  “I’m very glad to meet you, Claire. So… I guess Herschel doesn’t need me anymore.”

  “Who?” Claire asked, frowning in confusion.

  “Herschel…” he said, his eyebrows knitting as she stood there looking back, no more enlightened than before. “You have no idea who I’m talking about, do you.”

  “No,” she declared, as alarm set in. “He isn’t—there isn’t anyone living in the house, is there? Not that I thought the cat could survive on his own for two months, barring an infestation of rodents, but still—the attorney didn’t say anything about this! Who is Herschel?”

  A smile crossed Alec’s face. He made a basket, then caught the ball again.

  “So you’ve met Herschel, then. I guess he didn’t introduce himself by name. Herschel is the cat.”

  “Oh,” Claire replied, and laughed. Alec tossed her the ball and she made a basket, then tossed it back. “Yes, we’ve met. But Herschel? That’s his name?”

  “That it is,” Alec said. He dribbled to another spot on the court, and the ball whooshed through the net. “What do you think of him?”

  “I don’t really know anything about cats… but I like him. I think he’ll be good company,” she said, and caught the ball he tossed her.

  “Good,” Alec replied. He looked relieved.

  “And—you were taking care of him, I guess?” Claire asked, dribbling the ball slowly.

  “For the past three months. Mrs. Davis asked me to, when she went into hospice. I didn’t mind, don’t get me wrong. Herschel and I are old friends. But, I was a little concerned that whoever Mrs. Davis left the house to, wouldn’t appreciate inheriting him, also.”

  “Then you can cross that off the list of things to worry about,” she replied, and tossed the ball at the basket.

  “Three points for you, and you have a list?”

  “No, you do. More than one, if you’re keeping score.”

  Alec laughed at that as he retrieved the ball, and dribbled over to where she stood. She moved over, and he made a basket.

  “I am now,” he smiled.

  “You’re on,” she replied with confidence, as she caught the ball, and dribbled to a new location. “This is two points, obviously. This is three. And this… is four.”

  “Is that all?” he laughed a little incredulously.

  “Make it five, if you want,” she smiled.

  “I have a sneaking suspicion you’re about to prove that basketball-sharks really do exist,” he said wryly. Her smile further convinced him of that, so he laughed again. “Fine. If I’m willing to subject myself to humiliation, I want something back.”

  “What?” she asked, tucking her hair behind her ear as she aimed from the five-point line.

  “For every basket I make, you answer a question,” he replied.

  “Are you willing to reciprocate?” she wondered.

  “Sure,” he agreed.

  “Alright,” she shrugged, and made the basket.

  “Okay, wait, I call for an amendment!” he exclaimed. “For every basket you make, you answer a question.”

  “No rule changes, mid-game. I’m ahead two points, and you owe me an answer. What do you do?”

  “I own a garage,” he replied, as he retrieved the ball. “I’m not talking about the one beside yours, where I park my truck, but a real garage. I restore classic automobiles.”

  “Like mine?” she asked. He laughed at that, and missed his shot.

  “Not exactly. Is it giving you trouble?”

  “Often. But it got me here, and I can walk to work if I have to.”

  “Where do you work?” he wondered.

  Claire shook her head sadly as she made five more points.

  “I’m sorry, Alec, but you’ve got to earn your answers.”

  “Game over, you win. New game, new rules,” he promptly replied, and she laughed. “The winner of the last game has the victory. The loser’s consolation prize, is having all his questions answered.”

  “Fine,” Claire said, and tossed him the ball. “I work at Lochlan Museum.”

  “Really?” he sounded interested. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty. If you thought museum employees had to be as old as the artifacts, now you know better. You should anyway, considering you work on vintage cars. Then again, maybe you’re a whole lot older than you look.”

  “I’m twenty-four, and… I guess being old, looking studious, wearing elbow patches, and smoking a pipe, are no longer requirements for museum curators.”

  “I’m not the curator, and when was it ever? Mr. and Mrs. Lochlan aren’t even thirty, I don’t think.”

  “They’re not, I was kidding. So what do you do there?”

  “I hold the lofty title of sorter.”

  “What is that?” he wondered.

  “It’s completely made up. The title, anyway. My job is to sort, however. The museum is privately owned, and had its beginnings when the eldest Lochlan, who was a collector and historian, opened his collection to the public. It grew from there. People started donating, sometimes money for acquiring additional exhibits, and sometimes items they felt were of historical value. A
t least one person willed their entire estate to it.”

  “I remember that,” Alec commented. “But then the donations became less discriminating.”

  “That’s exactly right. And so, sorting treasure from trash—sometimes literally, from what I’ve been told—became a necessity. After the museum acquired the new building, the donations picked up even more. Since the museum is privately owned, anything donated belongs to the Lochlans to dispose of as they see fit. So anything museum-worthy is added to the exhibits. Anything that’s just plain trash, goes in the dumpster. Antiques that aren’t museum-worthy, go on consignment in the antique store here in Juniper Creek, and one in Ashland. The sales go toward the cost of maintenance, and bringing in new exhibits. Lochlan has exchange agreements with a number of museums so that the displays stay fresh and interesting. But transporting and insuring them, is costly. Anything that isn’t worth keeping or worth going in the antique store, is donated to a non-profit. Speaking of which, did you hear about the local thrift store getting broken into? I saw it on the news, along with the missing dog story.”

  “Yeah, I think the owner lives in a fence-free neighborhood like ours,” he smiled, then looked serious. “And yes, I heard about the breakin. I went by today, the manager is a friend of mine. The place is totally trashed, everyone is sick over it.”

  “Why would someone do that, anyway?” Claire wondered. “Was any money taken?”

  “The register wasn’t touched. The office was ransacked though, and just about everything that could be broken, was. As to why, your guess is as good as mine. As a charitable organization that deals in second-hand goods, my friend didn’t think there was any need for an expensive security system. Or one at all. It’s not like the place is on the bad side of town, or anything. It’s not all that far from my shop.”

  “Is there a bad side of town here?”

  “No, now that you mention it. The whole thing is baffling.”

  “Did it look like whoever did it was searching for something?”