“That may be the truest thing that’s been said all day, in spite of it being Sunday,” Tammy declared. “Claire, let me introduce you to Joe. He’s one of our maintenance men.”
“If you need a lightbulb changed, I’m your guy,” he smiled.
“That’s hardly the limits of your expertise,” Tammy rolled her eyes. “If you’ve got a computer, tablet, or phone issue of any kind, he’ll fix it right up. I’ve never seen such a technology whiz. And Joe, this is Claire, our sorter.”
“Nice to meet you, Joe,” Claire said. “I understand you’re in charge of the grand tour.”
“Yes ma’am,” he smiled. “I am today.”
Claire didn’t know what to think of being ma’amed. It was the first time it ever happened, and she found it disconcerting. She had the sudden urge to check her hair for gray.
“It’s Claire,” she replied.
“Yes ma’am,” Joe said.
Moving right along, then.
“Shall we go?” Claire suggested, motioning toward the stairs. Tammy swiped the ID in her hand, and Claire unlocked the door with her new key.
“I’ve got a little catching up to do in the office,” Tammy said, as they walked back down the hall toward the museum’s entrance. “Let me know when you’re ready to go, Joe, and I’ll walk out with you.”
“Sure thing, Mrs. Smith,” he replied.
“Claire, you can stay as long as you like, but I’d rather you get home before dark,” Tammy told her. “Especially seeing as you’re on foot.”
“I’ll do that,” Claire assured her. With a satisfied nod, Tammy disappeared into the open office door behind the ticket counter.
Joe looked around the large vaulted entry area, then back at Claire.
“If you want the official tour, I can do that. But… you do work here. Maybe you’d rather have the unofficial.”
“What’s the difference?” Claire wondered.
“Well… the official tour leaves out a lot,” Joe replied.
“Then bring on the unofficial tour,” Claire decided. Joe smiled, and she followed him.
“Okay, so you must’ve read the website, right? Nobody comes on board who hasn’t done their homework.”
“Yes, I read it.”
“Alright then. So we’ll leave out the part about Mr. Lochlan’s great-great grandfather, and everything else that’s public information.”
“That’s one way to save time and avoid being redundant,” Claire agreed, and Joe glanced at her sideways and laughed.
“Yeah. So you know this used to be a church, right?”
“Yes. The building fell into disrepair. Rather than pay to fix it, they sold it, moved to a new building, and now they’re very happy with their central air, up-to-code wiring, and state-of-the art media system.”
“Exactly,” Joe replied. “And the museum is happy to have a building of historical significance. Plus, it looks really cool. People come here from all over, just for that.”
“I can understand why,” Claire said, admiring the beautiful carven stone arches, pillars, posts, the cut-glass windows, hardwood floors, lofty ceilings… if she made a list of all the building’s attributes, it would be a long one.
“Imagine what they’d think if they knew the building is haunted,” Joe said, his voice hushed, and his eyes wide. If he was only pretending to be serious, he was doing a good job.
“I suppose what they thought, would depend on what they knew, and what they knew, would depend on what they saw and heard,” she replied. “So what have you seen and heard?”
“Follow me,” he said in reply.
It was hard to be too creeped out, considering the sun was shining outside, and the museum’s corridors had plenty of windows to welcome in the natural light. But once the sun went down… it would be very easy to lose one’s nerve here, she thought, as they passed through a dimly lit room filled with eerily realistic mannequins depicting life in medieval times.
Joe stopped in front of an exhibit and pointed to an ancient-looking chair in the far corner.
“See that chair?” he asked, and Claire nodded. “It looks old, right?”
“Very. Not that I can tell for sure, from this distance.”
“How about the fabric on the seat?”
“It’s pretty threadbare,” she acknowledged. Joe’s eyes grew wider as he nodded.
“Yeah. Want to know when it was recovered?”
“As in, when the chair was recovered from some location, or when the chair was reupholstered?”
“Reupholstered,” Joe clarified.
“When is the last time it was used?”
“Who knows,” he said, looking around nervously. “There could be someone sitting there right now.”
“Okay,” Claire said, frowning studiously as she struggled to suppress the sudden urge to laugh. “Is there a reason to think someone might be?”
“That chair… was reupholstered three years ago.”
Claire leaned over the exhibit’s rope barrier, and took a closer look.
“Well… then I’d say your ghost wears sandpaper pants, and scoots around a lot.”
Joe laughed at that, but quickly brought himself back under control.
“Yeah, I guess. Like a whole lot. Because the longest the upholstery ever lasts is four years, and sometimes not that.”
“Seriously?” she asked, giving it another look.
“Yeah, I’m serious,” he declared. “You can ask Mrs. Smith.”
“Okay… I may do that,” Claire replied. Joe seemed convinced, but she had a hard time buying it.
“You should talk to Phil, too,” Joe suggested. “He’s the main custodian. One of the guys won’t work nights anymore.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because of the running up and down the corridors.”
“The running,” she repeated. “What, like ‘of the bulls,’ or is this some other kind of running?”
Joe laughed again, then looked serious.
“The kind where you hear it, but there’s no one there.”
“Hm. Hearing it might be one way to get out of working nights,” Claire pointed out. “If someone didn’t want to, anyway.”
“I guess, but it’d be more likely to get a guy locked up in some asylum,” Joe considered.
“It seems like that would be one of the more benign conditions,” she suggested. She kept to herself the comment that an ear, nose, and throat doctor would be best equipped to deal with it, since it appeared to be hearing related.
“Yeah, maybe,” Joe said seriously. “But that’s not the worst of it.”
“Really? There’s something worse than antsy ghosts in sandpaper pants, and the pitter-patter of invisible feet up and down the corridors?”
“Lots worse,” Joe replied, still serious. “It’s the sorting room.”
“Don’t tell me. The ghost of an angry hoarder wants his stuff back.”
Joe laughed again, then assumed his serious expression once more.
“I don’t know, but maybe. Several people have heard laughing when there’s no one there.”
Claire really, really wanted to point out that if no one was there, there would be no one to hear. But Joe seemed to believe this stuff, and she didn’t want to say anything that would make him feel bad.
“Tammy put you up to this, didn’t she,” Claire replied, instead. “She’s trying to ensure I don’t stay after dark.”
Joe laughed at that.
“No, but she would if she thought of it.”
Claire steered the tour into the category of official, and Joe did an admirable job of delivering. The exhibits were interesting, and hearing about upcoming events was, too.
At the end of the official tour, Joe led the way to Tammy’s office. After providing Claire with her new security enabled ID, she and Joe said goodbye for the day.
Claire returned to the sorting room.
She scanned the tables and the laden shelves, as she pulled on her gloves. There
was so much to be sorted through, it was overwhelming. But not in a bad way. Not to Claire. It was exciting, and if she spied something worth investigating… here, there was no risk of another flea market or garage sale enthusiast beating her to it.
Her eyes settled on the furniture. It took no more than a cursory glance to see that it was all jumbled together with no rhyme, reason, or organization, so she moved to that side of the room.
She removed the conglomeration of items from a deeply scarred coffee table, and added those to one of the sort piles. The hair dryer belonged on the donate shelf… unless it no longer worked, in which case it ought to be tossed. Rather than test it, she set it on one of the tables. She was more interested in furniture, right now. Although, the figurine she picked up… was it a Hummel?
Claire examined it carefully, and determined it was a reproduction. It went on the donate shelf. She moved the coffee table to one side, and stacked six straight back chairs beside it. A recliner, so overstuffed it was busting its seams in places, wasn’t quite as easy to maneuver. She rocked it from one side to the other, and eventually edged it out of the way so she could reach the small drop-front desk.
She felt a thrill as she ran her gloved hand across the top, revealing the gorgeous woodgrain hiding beneath the dust. The front was delicately carved in a flowered scrollwork pattern. It was also locked.
Claire searched the drawer, but it was empty.
Underneath it, however, brittle, yellowed tape held an ancient-looking key in place.
The key was quite a find. Not because she was likely to discover something of value inside, hidden since the last time the key was used. It was easy enough to pick that particular lock, someone surely had, at some point. But to have the antique key that belonged to the desk… that, was find enough.
Claire inserted the key in the lock. It turned with a click, and she slowly lowered the drop-front.
Bundles of letters filled the pigeonholes on both sides of the desk. A small cardboard box shared the remaining space with one made of wood. It was closed, and locked. There was no key.
Claire set it aside for later. If it was like similar boxes, a large paperclip would be enough to open it. If not… there was bound to be at least one locksmith in town.
She reached for one of the packets of letters. Carefully untying the pale blue ribbon, she leafed through the thick envelopes. The postmarks ranged from 1943, to 1945. All were from Richard Thatcher, and were addressed to Beth Thatcher.
Claire hesitated, then set the letters aside. It didn’t feel right to read them. Not without trying to find the Thatchers, first. These letters would be precious to Beth, sent to her from overseas by her husband, or brother, during World War Two. If Claire was unable to find Beth, or Richard… then perhaps the Lochlans would find the letters exhibit-worthy.
Her heart thrilled when she examined the bundle on the opposite side. Like the others, they were postmarked between 1943 and 1945. These, however, were from Beth, to Richard.
One packet of letters was an exciting find, but to have both sides of this wartime correspondence represented, was amazing. The Lochlans would make the decision, but if it was up to Claire, the letters would become a part of the World War Two exhibit. Barring the discovery of the Thatchers, that is.
Claire returned the letters to their pigeonholes, and locked the desk. She’d give the rest of the contents a look tomorrow. For now, she moved the desk in front of the exhibit-worthy shelves. The letters were safer there, than on the shelves. The desk itself was more antique than exhibit-worthy, but… she wasn’t through searching it, either.
She returned to sorting through furniture, and amassed a pile to donate. The Duncan Phyfe sofa was antique, so she placed it to one side. She examined it closely, her forehead furrowing in concentration.
It was a pity the fabric was worn through in places. Maybe the sandpaper-pants wearing ghost took a turn at it, too. The thought made Claire laugh to herself, but it wasn’t funny that the value and usefulness of this once beautiful piece was significantly diminished by its flaws. The usefulness, at least, would increase if it was reupholstered. Did the Lochlans go so far as restoring antiques that were donated to the museum? She had no idea, and added that question to her mental note of things to ask later.
Claire glanced at the large clock on the wall, then at the high windows.
More time passed than she realized, but it was still light outside, and would be for a while. She had to walk home though, and suddenly realized how hungry she was after skipping lunch. Herschel was probably hungry, too.
She scanned the donate shelves as she walked by on her way to collect her purse and clock, and spied a large bowl. Or was it a basin? The inside of the wide, shallow dish was covered in a random mosaic of colorful bits of tile and glass. It was beautiful, and would make a great birdbath, if she could find something to set it on.
Claire picked it up. It was heavy… but who knew when the Blue Lightning would be ready to ride again. She slung her purse over her shoulder, and wrapped the clock in a donated towel that appeared to be clean. She chose to assume that it was. She set the clock inside the basin, swiped her ID, and exited the museum. After making certain the door was bolted firmly in place, she turned her steps in the direction of her new home.
The early evening was as gorgeous as the morning had been, and Claire enjoyed the walk. For a while. The basin and its clock cargo were awkward to carry, and her arms were aching long before she reached 116 Ivy Lane.
Claire trudged up the porch steps, and let herself in the house. Herschel met her at the front door, winding around her ankles, purring, wondering where she’d been for so long, and telling her all about how hungry he was.
“You poor thing,” she crooned. She carried the basin into the kitchen and set it on the table, then picked him up. He was quite an armful, but easier to hold than the large, heavy dish and the clock it contained. “I’ll get you fed, right now.”
Claire took the wrapped clock out of the basin and set it aside, then selected a can of cat food from the pantry, where Herschel stood waiting. He purred loudly as she opened the can and dumped it on a plate. As she set it in front of him, something hit the house with a thud. She stood and puzzled over that for a minute, then she heard it again. And now…
Claire cautiously looked between the slats of the sewing room window.
She sighed deeply, and reminded herself. She needed to depend on God for praise, not man. It was what God thought that mattered, and He knew she wasn’t stalking her neighbor.
Of course she wasn’t stalking her neighbor! This was her house!
She wasn’t stalking him. She wasn’t going to hide, either. Daphne was right, she had an amazing yard, and a garage, and she needed to get over feeling awkward.
That settled—maybe for real, this time—she brushed her hair behind her ear, grabbed a bottle of water because she was thirsty, then opened the kitchen door and stepped outside.
“Oh—hi,” Alec said. He seemed awfully surprised to see her, considering it was her court.
“Hi,” she replied.
“I wasn’t disturbing you, was I?” he asked.
“What are you talking about?” she wondered. She’d been plenty disturbed by him, but that’s probably not what he meant.
“The sound of the basketball hitting the backboard, I was afraid…”
“I just got home. I’ve been at work ever since church let out,” she replied. She hadn’t eaten yet either, and she was starving, but no way was she bringing that up ever again.
“You were at church? On Poplar Lane?” he asked. Claire couldn’t tell if he was surprised, or concerned, or… disappointed. Maybe dismayed.
“Just like I said I would be,” minus the getting there really late, part. “So, you’ve got the ball out… want to play a game?”
“Yeah, uh… I wish I could,” he said. He looked like an apologetic deer. “I would, but… I’ve got to go, there’s somewhere I’m supposed to be in a few minute
s.”
“Of course there is. Don’t let me keep you,” she said, doing an excellent job of looking as though she did not want to run the apologetic deer over with her jeep. Not that she had one. Lucky for him. She waved him away for good measure, and sat on the step with her bottle of water.
“Yeah, I’m… sorry. We’ve got to quit meeting like this,” he tried to joke. He looked almost as uncomfortable as she felt.
“We really do,” she agreed.
Step one, would be for him to quit stepping foot on her property.
“I’ll see you later, Claire,” he said.
“Sure,” she replied, and focused all her attention on drinking water, instead of watching him walk away.
She spent the next hour lying on the couch, wishing she didn’t drink the whole bottle all at once. Then again, if she exploded, she wouldn’t have to deal with seeing him ever again.
“But poor Herschel, who would take care of you?” she considered, rolling onto her side and scooting back to make room on the couch for him.
Herschel didn’t have an answer for her. He hopped up and lay down beside her, purring as she scratched behind his ears and under his chin.
Claire’s phone rang. She took it out of her pocket and glanced at the screen.
“Hello,” she answered listlessly.
“What’s the matter with you?” Daphne wondered. “You don’t sound well.”
“I drank too much, too fast. And apparently no, I will never learn. And I’m not just talking about excessive water consumption.”
“Then tell me what you are talking about.”
“I went to the museum after church. It was amazing! I can’t believe I get to work there, it’s so cool. The owner is super-nice, and so is Tammy, the HR lady. Then Joe, he’s still in high school, he gave me the official, and unofficial tour. That was a lot of fun. And then… I came home. Want to guess who was playing basketball on my court, outside my house?”
“Do I need to?”
“No. It was my neighbor. He looked stunned to see me. I asked if he wanted to play, he said he had to go. And he did.”
“That’s bizarre,” Daphne frowned. “What’s the matter with him?”
“I don’t know. But I’m not letting him get to me anymore.”
Lochlan Museum: The Case of the Collectible Killer Page 5