by Penny Drake
He gave me a long look. “Yeah. Back when I was young and stupid. A friend dared me to break into a house and I did. Got caught, got cuffed, end of story. You figured it out, hooray for you. I don’t like cops.” He paused. “So what did Belinda say? And what did the cops want?”
“Nothing you need to know about.”
He gave an easy smile. “Belinda will tell me if you don’t. Why not save me the trouble?”
“If she wants to tell you, she can,” I said. “My lips are sealed.”
“Sealed around that cheeseburger.”
“You’re awfully mouthy for someone who just took an elbow in the groin.”
The cashier set a tray piled with food in front of Zack and clapped him sympathetically on the shoulder. “Dude,” he said. I paid him, and he went back to his station.
“Tell you what,” Zack said. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
I eyed him warily. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I met Uncle Lawrence long before you came along.” Zack picked up a fry, swore, and dropped it. Too hot. He picked up his heavy mushroom burger instead. Cheese oozed between the layers and mushrooms peeked out from under the bun. “I did a little background work of my own, you know. I’ll tell you what I know if you tell me what you know.”
I considered this while I chewed. Research was always iffy—you never knew if it’d take five minutes or five days. Another set of eyes would be useful. Finally I swallowed and said, “Only if Belinda says it’s okay. It’s all about—”
“Confidentiality,” he finished. “I know. So call her already.”
I did, and Belinda was delighted to hear “that nice young man” still wanted to be involved.
“You can tell him anything about the case you want,” she said.
“I don’t know if full disclosure is such a great idea,” I replied. I was outside the restaurant under the maple tree. Zack was inside, eating, and my cheeseburger was getting cold. “I’m not quite sure if we can trust him.”
“Do whatever you feel is best, then,” Belinda said. “You have my permission to share whatever information you feel is relevant or necessary.”
Back inside, I sat down again. Zack had finished most of his burger. “Well?”
I sighed. If Zack had information, I needed to at least pretend to trust him so I could worm it out of him. “Belinda said it’s okay. Let’s trade info.”
“I’ll even go first as a good faith gesture,” he said magnanimously. “I looked into the Peale family history and I learned there are two main branches—one in Chicago and one here in Detroit, which includes Ann Arbor.”
I remembered Belinda mentioning that she had distant relatives in Chicago but didn’t know how to contact them. I nodded and dipped another fry in ketchup.
“The family has a weird history of crime,” Zack continued. “They seem to be victims of it a hell of a lot. I found several old newspaper articles and police blotter reports about burglars breaking into Peale family residences, both here in the Detroit area and out in Chicago. The Chicago Peales have a family estate complete with mansion, and it’s been in the family for generations.”
“The Peales seem to like big houses,” I mused.
“Yeah. But here it gets really interesting. In every single case—and I found references going back to the twenties—the Chicago Peales claimed nothing had been stolen and they had no idea who might be breaking in. The police never caught anyone, as far as I could tell.”
I thought back to the magazine guy and the intruder Zack and I had chased. “So people have been breaking into Peale houses for decades. Why?”
Zack shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you. All I had to go on were microfilmed newspaper stories. And it gets better.” He opened his backpack and pulled out a piece of paper. “I copied this article from a 1938 Detroit Free Press. A certain Edmund Peale of Chicago was arrested for breaking into the house of Victor Peale in Detroit. A beat cop was in the right place at the right time and arrested Edmund as he was sneaking out of Victor’s house. But check it out—Victor didn’t press charges.”
I skimmed the fuzzy print. Zack was right. Victor had let Edmund go. The newspaper didn’t say why. Familial regard? As an aside, the article also mentioned Victor’s two sons—Howard and Lawrence. No mention of a daughter—Belinda’s mother—but I realized that if Belinda’s mother was barely sixty at her death, she wouldn’t have been born yet. I looked at the story again.
“If Edmund Peale of Chicago broke into the house of Victor Peale in Detroit,” I said slowly, “that seems to hint that other Peales were behind the other break-ins. They were breaking into each other’s houses, back and forth.”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Zack said. “But it seems to have stopped in 1947.”
“Why’s that?”
Zack pushed another sheet of paper to me. The microfilm copy was a little blurry, but the headline was clear enough: PEALE HOME BURNS TO THE GROUND. I read quickly. The Peale house, located in what was then a wealthy, riverside section of Detroit, had mysteriously caught fire in the middle of the night. No one had been hurt, but the house had been a total loss. The police were suspicious, of course, but back then there wasn’t much going in the way of arson investigation methods.
“When asked if it were possible that someone in the Peale home had set the fire,” I read aloud, “police investigator Tom Flugel said, ‘We’re investigating all possibilities.’ Huh.”
“Yeah. A couple weeks later, the paper must have had a slow news day because they did a follow-up. The article said no one had been arrested or even charged yet, and the police had no suspects.”
“Assuming it was arson,” I said slowly, “did the Chicago Peales set the fire, or did the Detroit Peales burn their own house down? Was the house insured?”
“Papers didn’t say. I would guess so. Fire insurance was fairly common by the forties, especially for the rich. Notice, though, that Victor moved to Ann Arbor after the fire. That was when the junk mansion got its start. The Ann Arbor News ran several articles about Vincent Peale building his new home and moving in with his wife and with his sons Howard and Lawrence. They were almost teenagers by then. The main thing is that I couldn’t find any more references to break-ins, not here and not in Chicago. They stopped after the house in Detroit burned down.”
“Or you missed the references to the break-ins,” I said, “or the paper didn’t report on them. Or the Peales stopped calling the police about them.”
“All possible, but not likely,” Zack said. “I did catch the other break-in articles, and it doesn’t seem likely the papers would have ignored the other ones. Reporters read the police blotter, after all. And you’re saying the Peales in both cities alerted the police after every break-in before the fire, but not after it? It seems way more likely that the break-ins just stopped.”
“That’s the most likely explanation,” I admitted. “I’m just saying we have to keep an open mind.”
“Sure. Right.” He popped the last bite of burger into his mouth. “Anyway. I’m trying to put the pieces of all this together. I’m thinking the Chicago Peales and the Detroit Peales had some kind of feud going, and they were breaking into each other’s houses. But why? And why did they stop?”
I drummed my fingers on the Formica table. Thoughts coalesced in my mind like gathering thunderheads. “Because,” I said, thinking as I went, “there was no longer a reason to break in. What if the break-ins were to look for something in particular? Something valuable to the families? Something that got stolen back and forth between the two branches of the family?”
“Something like what?”
“Not sure. But I’ll bet the fire destroyed it back in forty-seven. That would explain the end to the break-ins.”
“And maybe it wasn’t destroyed after all. Maybe Uncle Lawrence wanted to show the thing to me.” Zack took a swig of pop. “Okay, your turn.”
“My turn?”
“Spill. What was Belinda ca
lling about back at the mansion and why did the cops show up?”
I sketched out what the medical examiner had learned about the dead man. Zack listened carefully, without interrupting.
“Looks like the break-ins are starting up again,” Zack said. “I wonder…do you think the dead guy might be a Chicago Peale?”
“Dunno. It’s a good possibility. I’ll let the cops know.”
“Better you than me, babe.”
“Don’t call me ‘babe,’” I said. “Unless you want another jab in the groin.”
“Only if you promise to call me…” he trailed off.
“Call you what?”
“Just call me.” He grinned rakishly—Jesus, he had a cute smile—and I couldn’t help the little laugh that burst out. “Oh good. You do have a sense of humor.”
In response, I emptied my tray into the trash and headed for the door. “You coming?”
He was right behind me. “Not yet. What do you have in mind?”
I paused for a moment, trying to decide if his answer had been an innuendo, then decided to let it slide. “The library. It’s where I take all the hot men I meet.”
“I was just there. Why should we—did you say ‘hot men’?”
Had I said that out loud? Oh shit. I could feel the blush begin. To cover, I put a winsome little smile on my face. “I’m making an exception in your case.”
Now he looked confused about potential innuendo. Good. I led him outside.
Zack’s bike was chained to my parking meter out front. We wedged it into the back of my jeep with the front tire hanging out over the bumper and drove to the public library, a long, low building made of brick. They keep reference on the top floor, and I was glad to see Marge on duty behind the desk. Marge isn’t a former client, but like most librarians, she loves serious researchers who don’t abuse the library’s equipment or materials. I approached the reference desk with a smile, and Marge looked up.
“You’re back,” she said with a smile that took ten years off her face.
I blinked at her. I hadn’t visited the library in several days. Then I realized she was smiling at Zack, not me.
“I just can’t get enough,” he said, casually leaning on the desk with another rakish grin. The remark dripped with implications. I would have whacked his wang for it, but Marge actually simpered. I didn’t think women did that anymore.
I none-too-gently elbowed Zack aside. “We need to look at The Ann Arbor News starting in 1947.”
Marge handed me a form to fill out without taking her eyes off Zack. Annoyed, I scribbled my request on it. Marge bustled back to the enormous cabinets behind the reference desk and returned with a white box of microfilm spools.
“These are for 1947,” she said. “Come back when you’re done and I’ll get you 1948.”
I thanked her, but Zack had to go one further. “You’re a wonder, Marge,” he said over his shoulder as I towed him to the film readers and all but shoved him into a seat.
“What’s with you?” he demanded in a low voice, though we had the readers to ourselves.
“Turn off the charm, Mr. Prince,” I growled. “We’re not impressed.”
“A little social grease goes a long way in getting some help.” He lifted a spool from the box and fed the film into the reader. “No reason to get jealous.”
I gave a superior snort that said I felt no need to answer that, then fed my own spool into the reader and started skimming. Text slid slowly sideways on the screen in front of me as I rotated the wheel.
“What are we looking for, anyway?” Zack asked. “I told you I already checked the newspaper.”
“All the stuff you told me about came from hard news,” I said. “Did you check the society pages and the gossip columns?”
There was a pause. “No,” Zack said in a small voice.
“Then let’s get started,” I said sweetly. “And this time be thorough, Mr. Prince.”
He made no response. I plugged my iPod into my ears and settled into the Zen of research. Reading old newspapers on microfilm isn’t easy. Text slips sideways, and it’s easy to lose your place. After a while, headaches set in, if you aren’t careful. Rather than read every word, I set my internal search engine to scan headlines for terms like “house,” “mansion,” “fire,” “recluse,” “burglary,” “break-in,” and “Peale.” I also checked the gossip columns. They rarely had informative headlines, though, and I had to read them carefully. Zack worked in silence beside me. I was glad he didn’t try to talk. Some people feel the need to fill the silence with chatter in these circumstances, even though talk is a distraction.
After two hours of eye-watering work, I came across a gossipy little item on the society pages. The date was June 15, 1949.
Can it be true? Have the Peales renounced society forever? A little bird says that Darlene Peale, the darlin’ wife of Mr. Victor Peale, has flown the coop, taking daughter Nell with her. Can it be that Mr. Peale’s eccentricities finally drove her away? Or maybe she couldn’t find the legendary Peale family treasure? Everyone knows that dear Darlene married up, after all. Their two sons elected to stay with Dad, who hasn’t been seen in public for months now. Even the help never see him, and rumor has it he wanders the hallways only at night. Exactly what goes on behind the walls of that mansion? And is the treasure still there?
Peale family treasure? My heart quickened. What kind of treasure? My imagination tossed up an image of a one-eyed pirate standing with a booted foot on a wooden chest, an image the rational side of my mind quickly dismissed. “Treasure” didn’t have to be gold or jewels. It could be anything of value. But what? Belinda hadn’t mentioned a family treasure. Maybe she didn’t know about it. Or maybe she didn’t want us to know about it. I read the column three times, but it didn’t have anything else to say on the matter. Finally I shut off my iPod and showed the item to Zack. Fascination spread across his face like a sunrise.
“Treasure,” he breathed. “Wonder what it is. Or was. Do you think it was destroyed in the Detroit fire?”
“Whoever wrote this column didn’t think so,” I pointed out.
“Okay, okay.” Zack stood up and started to pace. “Let’s go through this. There’s a—”
Across the room, Marge pointedly cleared her throat and looked hard at Zack over her reading glasses, clearly reminding him he was in a library. He blushed boyishly, then gave her a sheepish little wave and lowered his voice, though he continued to pace a little.
“The Peales have some kind of treasure, but no one knows what kind.”
“What makes you say that?” I said.
“If the gossip columnist had known, or even suspected, she would have said so.”
“True,” I conceded. “Can we assume the treasure is the reason the families kept breaking into each other’s houses?”
“What do you mean?”
I gnawed a thumbnail. “Suppose both the Chicago Peales and the Detroit Peales felt…entitled to the treasure. Maybe the break-ins were attempts to steal the treasure back and forth. The Detroiters would steal it from the Chicagoans, who would then steal it back. Family rivalry. It would explain why Victor Peale didn’t file charges against Edmund.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Zack said, sitting down again. “Why not arrest the bozo who breaks into your house?”
“Because both sides wanted to keep the whole thing quiet. If you press charges, he’s likely to blab about what it is he was trying to steal, and that would be entered into the police report.”
“So why did they call the police at all?” Zack countered. “It looks like every time there was a break-in, someone notified the cops.”
“I’m guessing the families either wanted to show the other side that they meant business, or they called the police before they realized the burglar was a family member. It’s also possible that the servants called the police.”
“The Peales could leave standing orders about that.”
I rolled my eyes. “Right. ‘Jeeves,
if someone breaks into the house, don’t call the police.’ ‘Why not, sir?’ ‘Because the person might be after our super-secret family treasure. Oh, and keep that to yourself.’ Sure.”
“Good point.”
“So the two branches kept stealing the treasure back and forth until 1947. I’m betting Victor had it at the time his house caught fire, and everyone assumed the treasure was destroyed. That’s why the break-ins stopped.”
“But maybe the treasure wasn’t destroyed,” Zack finished.
“Exactly. I wonder if that’s what the intruder was looking for—and what Uncle Lawrence wanted to show you.”
“If everyone thought the treasure was destroyed,” Zack said, “why would they be looking for it now?”
“Don’t know. Someone may have found out about it just recently. Or we could be barking up the wrong tree and they might be looking for something else entirely.” I knuckled both eyes. “Let’s keep reading and see if anything else turns up.”
Another hour went by. A headache knocked at the back of my eyeballs like a Jehovah’s Witness on caffeine. Caffeine. When was the last time I’d had any? Lunch. And that had been hours ago. No wonder. Now that I was aware of it, the caffeine jones settled in for real. It felt like an emptiness, a very strange thirst that wouldn’t be slaked by water or juice, and I knew the more I tried to ignore it, the worse it would get. Text blurred past me on the reader, and I decided I was likely to miss something important if I kept it up. I was just about to tell Zack I was knocking off for the day when he paused his reader.
“Here’s something,” he said. “Another gossip column. Says a woman named Mary Bentwick has been putting the make on ‘young, handsome Howard Peale.’”
I thought about the corpse with the coke-bottle glasses, the squishy one I had sunk my hand into. Not what you’d call handsome.
“The column also wonders,” Zack continued, “if Miss Bentwick is just trying to get her hands on the ‘legendary’ Peale family papers.”
“Papers?” I leaned over to look. “Is that a reference to the treasure or to something else?”