A Rare Murder In Princeton

by Ann Waldron

  “Oh, I remember somebody said the Bay Psalm Book was the jewel of his collection. It’s the first book printed in America, and there are practically no copies around.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Cowboy. “Princeton was very excited indeed at the prospect of owning it.”

  “But why Bowdoin?”

  “Love,” said Cowboy. “It was where Will Trueheart—he was Philip’s companion for many years—had gone to school. And Philip told me he decided he had never provided for a proper memorial for Will and he would do this final thing. Besides, he felt that his copy of the Bay Psalm Book should be in New England. It was originally published in Massachusetts. I thought it was a whim of Philip’s. He was a devoted Princeton alumnus. He had been quite fond of Clement Odell, who was Nat’s predecessor, and of course, he liked Nat himself. The agreement with Princeton was a win for both him and the university. I must say I didn’t hurry about preparing the change. But I shouldn’t tell you that.” He shook his head. “You’re too easy to talk to.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” said McLeod. “I do appreciate your talking to me. And I’m sure George will be grateful.”

  “He won’t be when he gets my bill,” said Cowboy. “Don’t worry, I won’t charge him anything for this talk. When we have to do something, it will be different.”

  “Thanks,” said McLeod again, and left.

  She walked back to the campus and down to the parking garage. It was time for her to find the Murrays’ house on Wilson Drive.

  Thirty-three

  SHE WAS ASTONISHED to find that the Murrays lived in an extremely modern house, a severe white box with sheets of glass. Bauhaus comes to Princeton, she thought. Although the other houses on Wilson weren’t really old like the ones on Edgehill, they were all certainly traditional architecture. The Murrays’ box was conspicuous, to say the least.

  Mary greeted her without enthusiasm and asked her if she’d like some tea.

  “No thanks,” said McLeod, but gratefully sat down on the black leather sofa in the spartan living room-dining room when Mary ushered her in. “Such an interesting house,” she said.

  “We love it,” said Mary. “Big and I both grew up in old houses, and we wanted something different, something with clean lines and open spaces and lots of light.”

  “Well, you got it,” said McLeod.

  “Yes,” said Mary, waiting.

  “Mary, I wanted to come and see you to ask you a couple of questions. You know I found all these letters that Vincent Lawrence wrote to his mother during World War II, and I wonder if you wanted them. Vincent was your husband’s uncle and his mother was Big’s grandmother. I asked Big about them, and he wasn’t interested, but I wanted to check with you. I thought they might be of interest to you or your children.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t think we’re interested, and we don’t have any children, you know,” said Mary.

  This was a blank wall, McLeod felt, but she’d give it one more punch. “Vincent sent some beautiful things back from Europe, I understand,” she said.

  “He did?” said Mary. “I wasn’t even born then. I hardly knew Vincent. He never married, and he died before Jill did.”

  McLeod could be persistent. “Mary, I wonder if you could tell me more about your mother-in-law, Jill Murray. Everybody speaks of her with such warmth and affection. And since I’m living—even temporarily—in her old house, I’m curious about her.”

  “She was very popular,” said Mary. “Everybody thought she was wonderful. I had my problems with her—as I guess every wife does with her husband’s mother—but I have to admit she was admirable. She was active in everything in town—church, garden club, the public library board—she was a great gardener, a good cook.”

  “Who would want to kill a paragon like that?” asked McLeod.

  “They decided it was a tramp, a random act, I suppose you’d call it,” said Mary.

  “Do you ever think about it? Does it worry you?”

  “No, I don’t. It’s over and done with and there’s nothing I can do about it. You have to move on, put things behind you.”

  The blank wall was blank. She could not dredge up another question.

  Mary surprised her when she spoke again. “You know, I’ll tell you who might be interested in those letters—maybe. That’s Amelia.”

  “Amelia?”

  “Amelia Keaton. She’s married to Randall Keaton. Somehow I thought you knew them,” said Mary.

  “Oh, Buster Keaton,” said McLeod. “Of course, at the library. You mean Buster might want them for the manuscript collection. I had not thought of that.”

  “No, it’s Amelia who I thought just might be interested. You see, she was a Lawrence, too. Her father was Arthur Lawrence. He died recently. But Amelia is mad about all that family stuff.”

  “I’ll certainly ask her,” said McLeod. “I did meet her once, at the chapel one Sunday morning.”

  “She’s big on church,” said Mary. “Church and family. Like her Aunt Jill.” She stood up. “And you’ll have to excuse me. We’re going out tonight and I have some things I have to do.”

  “Thanks so much,” said McLeod, “and I’ll get in touch with Amelia. In fact, can I use your phone book?”

  “You’re going right now?”

  “I think I will. While it’s on my mind,” said McLeod.

  “Let me give you her telephone number,” said Mary.

  McLeod wrote it down, and Mary said, “And if I were you, I’d not ask any more questions about Jill Murray.”

  McLeod stared at her and started to ask why, but thought better of it, and left.

  ONCE SHE WAS in her car, McLeod called Amelia Keaton on her cell phone and asked if she could come to see her. “I met you at the chapel one Sunday morning. Buster introduced us,” she said.

  “I remember. Certainly. Come on by. You know where we live?”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  Amelia gave her the address on Linden Lane and told her how to get there. It was a small house, but nicely kept, McLeod thought as she rang the bell. Like Big and Mary Murray, the Keatons, she had gathered, had no children. It did seem that the houses of childless families always looked neater and trimmer than the others. But that was only logical—they had more money, more time, fewer people cluttering up the outside and inside with things on wheels and other miscellaneous objects.

  Amelia Keaton flung the door open and smiled as though she were more delighted to see McLeod than anyone in the world. “Do come in. I was just about to have some tea. You’ll have some, won’t you?”

  “I’d love some.” She had refused tea at Mary Murray’s, but Amelia seemed genuinely welcoming, so she accepted. She started to follow Amelia into the kitchen, but Amelia said, “Sit down. It’s all ready. I’ll bring it right in.” She was as good as her word. McLeod barely had time to look around the living room—noticing the antique furniture, the glass-fronted bookcase filled with what looked like very old books, and a blue and white bowl with narcissus about to burst into bloom—before Amelia was back with a silver tray bearing a silver teapot, thin china cups and saucers, and shortbread cookies. “I’ll let it steep one minute,” said Amelia. “How do you like Princeton, McLeod?”

  “I love Princeton. This is the fourth time I’ve been here for any length of time, and I know it’s one of the most beautiful, interesting towns in the world.”

  Amelia nodded approvingly and poured the tea.

  “It’s good!” said McLeod approvingly when she took her first sip. Amelia looked smug, and passed the cookies. She gazed at McLeod, waiting.

  McLeod, in turn, hesitated. “Amelia, you know I’m just here for a semester,” she said finally. “I’m staying with an old friend, George Bridges, who bought the house on Edgehill where Jill Murray used to live. Mary Murray told me she was your aunt.”

  “That’s right. And I knew you were staying there. I even knew you cleaned out the garage.”

  “You did?”

  �
��Oh, yes. Everybody knows everything in Princeton,” said Amelia.

  “Amazing. It’s interesting because I wanted to say I found some letters in the garage. They were written from Vincent Lawrence to his mother during World War II. I told Big and Mary Murray about them but they weren’t interested. Mary said you might be.”

  “I would be interested. I would have guessed Little Big wouldn’t give a hoot about old letters, but I do. Vincent Lawrence was my uncle, my father’s brother. My father adored Vincent—Vincent was older than my father. And Vincent’s mother, of course, was my grandmother. Did you bring them with you? I’d love to see them.”

  “No, I didn’t bring them. I wanted to check with you first.”

  “It was nice of you to do it in person.”

  McLeod could tell that Amelia was clearly surprised that she had come to see her when a simple telephone call would have done, but what could she do? She had wanted to see her and ask some more questions. “I came on impulse,” she said.

  “Have you read them? Are they interesting?” Amelia was excited.

  “They are extremely interesting,” McLeod said.

  “I didn’t know Jill had them.”

  “The handyman said the things up on the rafters in the garage belonged to Jill Murray. He said he had put some cartons up there for her. And the letters were in one of those cartons.”

  “Isn’t Dante sweet?” asked Amelia.

  “Oh, you know him?”

  “Yes, he used to work for my parents, as well as Jill. He works for me now, too. He’s invaluable. He’s old, but he’s strong and he works so hard.”

  “So that’s how you knew I cleaned out the garage on Edgehill?” said McLeod.

  “Yes, that’s how.” Amelia laughed. “Dante told me. And then Buster told me about your finding some marvelous things in a box of old dresses. Weren’t you thrilled?”

  “It was quite exciting,” said McLeod.

  “Do you suppose there was anything valuable in those other boxes Dante took to the dump?” Amelia asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. One box I remember was full of nothing but old shoes. That would be a bad place to hide valuables,” said McLeod.

  “One does wonder how Aunt Jill got hold of them, doesn’t one?” asked Amelia. She rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue in her left cheek.

  Her expression made McLeod remember how she had realized that whenever her cousin Bruce stuck his tongue in his cheek and rolled his eyes like that, he was always lying. Was Amelia, this likable, churchgoing, attractive woman lying?

  “Tell me about your Aunt Jill,” said McLeod. “Everybody says such wonderful things about her.”

  “She was very popular,” said Amelia, but without the enthusiasm that everyone from Dante to Natty had expressed. “But she had her downside, too. She quarreled with my father before she died. He was quite angry with her.”

  “That’s too bad,” said McLeod. “Family quarrels can be damaging, can’t they?”

  “Quite damaging,” said Amelia.

  “Did you know Vincent Lawrence?”

  “Not really well. He was something of an art collector. I have a few of his things.” She waved her hand at a collection of porcelain plates that hung on one wall. “Those were his—and that picture.” She pointed to a seascape over the fireplace.

  “Did you ever hear of anything he brought home from Europe after the war?”

  “There were whispers about some things, but I never saw them.”

  McLeod decided she had mined this vein as thoroughly as she could. “I must be off. I’ve stayed too long. I’ll bring the letters over.”

  “I’ll come right now and get them,” said Amelia.

  “No, I’ll bring them. I put them away and I’m not sure where I put them. I’ll be able to find them when I get home.” Now she would have to figure out a way to give the letters to Amelia while also saving them for George. She had certainly painted herself into a corner on this one.

  “Give my love to Dante when you see him,” said Amelia.

  Thirty-four

  IT WAS DARK by the time McLeod reached the empty house on Edgehill Street. What time would George be home? And when would Nick Perry show up? She checked the phone for messages and heard George say he’d be very late; he had finished work, but Polly had invited him over and he thought he’d go. He hoped McLeod would be all right on her own. Her mind was whirling with all the new information she had gathered that day—and that was good, because she couldn’t be bothered to care about George and Polly.

  Why should she care, anyway? she thought. Besides, the murders and the treasure were all she could think about.

  One thing she could do right away, she decided, was to take Cowboy Tarleton’s advice and search online. She went upstairs to her room and turned on her laptop. Google immediately brought up dozens of references to Litzenburg, all in German. McLeod scrolled down the screen, clicking on “Translate this page” each time.

  She read, in extremely odd English translations, facts about the shopping, hotels, and climate of Litzenburg. And finally she came to a mention of the church, a Romanesque monument, and its missing treasure. The Litzenburg treasure was recorded lost as “war booty” at the end of World War II. As she read farther, McLeod learned that twenty years ago, the church suddenly felt new hope for the return of its treasure—news of it had surfaced in the United States. A New York lawyer had offered what was surely the reliquary from Litzenburg to a German foundation in return for a “finder’s fee.” The lawyer would not reveal whom he was representing, but sources indicated that it was a brother and sister in a New Jersey town. They said that a third brother, by then deceased, had reportedly “found it in the gutter in Germany” after World War II. The foundation had refused to pay the “finder’s fee.” The church had protested to the United States government, but nothing further had happened.

  McLeod printed out the information and continued to search, but could not find an address for the church, nor could she locate the stolen art listings.

  In a way, aside from the Polly angle, it was too bad George wasn’t going to be home—she was dying to tell somebody everything she had found out. Nick Perry would be coming by, but when? And if he wasn’t in his “you answer questions, don’t ask them” mode, he would be the ideal listener.

  She sat at her desk staring at the empty computer screen. What had happened after Vincent Lawrence mailed the treasure home? She knew that years had passed. Vincent Lawrence’s mother would have died, and then Vincent died. She supposed that Jill Murray and her brother, Arthur, had inherited the treasure. They were surely the “brother and sister in New Jersey.” Then the two of them must have tried to sell part of the treasure. But no luck. Did they try to find another buyer, a dealer maybe? Then Jill had apparently hidden the treasure in a box of old dresses. Why had she done that? And then Jill had been murdered.

  Who had murdered her?

  And what connection did all this have with the murders in Rare Books?

  The solution had been dawning slowly on her. One person was connected to both mysteries. Why had it taken her so long to figure it out? It now seemed so obvious.

  The doorbell rang.

  Oh, good—it’s Nick, she thought, getting up. But I haven’t cooked a thing, she lamented to herself as she rushed down the stairs and opened the door, talking already, apologizing.

  “I’m so sorry I haven’t—”

  But it wasn’t Nick who had rung the doorbell. It was Buster Keaton.

  “Buster!” she said. She heard a quaver in her voice.

  “Sorry to barge in at this time of night,” he said.

  “George isn’t here,” she said. She thought this would send him away—already she was regretting that she had let him know she was alone. Why, oh, why hadn’t she opened the door on the chain? Because, she answered her own question, it hadn’t occurred to her, and if it had, she still would have thought it was Nick.

  “Oh, really,” said Buster.


  “I’m sorry you missed him,” she said, and started to shut the door. Buster pushed it open and came inside.

  She looked at him. What could she say? How could she get rid of him?

  “Could I have a glass of water?” he asked.

  She couldn’t refuse a man’s request for a glass of water, could she? “All right,” she said. She turned and started for the kitchen. Buster followed her. “Ice?” she asked automatically.

  “Please,” he said.

  “I wish George had an ice maker,” she said, feeling compelled to say something as she pulled out a tray of ice cubes and popped it over the sink. She put ice in a glass, filled it with water, and turned to hand it to him.

  “I saw Amelia this afternoon,” she said, trying to make conversation as she handed him the water.

  “I know you did.” Buster took the glass of water, staring at her as he did so. What did he want? she wondered again. Was he going to wait until George came home? Why hadn’t he called first? Or had he come to see her? He couldn’t know how much she knew. She shivered.

  “I like your house,” she said.

  Buster still stared at her. If only Nick—or George—would show up. She started out of the kitchen, but Buster did not move. Then habit, a lifetime’s training in Southern hospitality, took over. She turned and said, “Buster, would you like a drink—something besides water? Tea? Wine? Have you eaten supper—can I offer you anything to eat?”

  “Now that sounds good,” Buster said. “I’ll have Scotch on the rocks.”

  McLeod put more ice cubes in another glass and handed it to Buster. “The Scotch is on that little chest in the dining room,” she said. “Help yourself. I’ll rustle up something to eat.”

  Buster went into the dining room and came back with his glass brimming with Scotch. McLeod took a wedge of Camembert out of the refrigerator, unwrapped it, and put it on a plate with crackers.