by Leigh Perry
When we got off the phone with Phil, it rang again. I looked down at the caller ID but let it ring.
“You want me to get that?” Sid said.
“Nope.”
His hand emerged from the bag to pick up the phone and hold it where he could see it. “It’s Brownie.”
“I saw.”
I should have realized that Sue would immediately get in touch with Dana and Treasure Hunt, who would in turn call Brownie.
“Are you mad at him?” Sid asked.
“I’m still deciding.”
“Which means that you are.”
“It means I am, but I’m not sure it’s justified. I know it wasn’t his story to tell, and that he was following his parents’ lead, and maybe I shouldn’t blame him, but I do. That’s why I’m not answering.”
The phone stopped ringing, and Sid looked at the phone again. “He didn’t leave a message.”
“Okay.” I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing for my state of mind or a bad one.
“Do you want to talk about it? I don’t have any experience with romance, but I can listen.”
“I appreciate the offer, but not right now.”
His hand snuck out again and patted my leg comfortingly. At least it was comforting for me, though it probably wouldn’t have been for anyone outside my family.
By the time we got to Pennycross and I checked in with Madison to see how her day had gone, it was time to set the table for dinner. Deborah arrived in the middle of that, so there was no time to speak to her until after we ate.
I didn’t know if Phil had warned her that he’d been nudged to invite her or she just recognized the gleam in Sid’s eye sockets, but she didn’t seem surprised when we asked if we could speak to her once dinner was over and the cleanup was taken care of.
I said, “Deborah, would you care to demonstrate your memory again?”
“Are you two still obsessing about the Nichols house?”
I nodded. “We think Annabelle’s death was connected to some thefts at the McClelland Museum at Bostock, and we think those thefts—”
“Stop. I don’t want to hear anything else that starts with ‘we think.’ Just tell me what you want from me now, and when you’ve wrapped everything up, you can tell me the rest.”
“Okay,” Sid said, and he opened his laptop to a fresh spreadsheet window. “We need to know everybody who was there when you were clearing out the house.”
“Everybody? It was a crowd of people, most of whom were useless.”
“Everybody you can remember. We already know about you and Annabelle, of course.” He waited with his finger bones on the keyboard.
She sighed deeply. “All right, I’ll try. It was the guy who runs Hoarder Helper that hired me. Umar…” She reached for her phone to check the contacts list. “Umar Kalu. He had two guys that worked with him: Reo and Gun, but I never got their last names. I tell you, that company has the job down to a science. As bad as the house was, Umar said it was worlds better than most of them he’d been involved in because the hoarder was already dead and didn’t argue with them every time they tried to throw out a stack of ten-year-old newspapers.
“When I got to the house, they’d already brought a dumpster for the outright garbage and three storage pods—one for the stuff to donate to charity, one for the stuff to take to the museum, and one for the stuff they were going to send to the family. Even though the contents of the house were left to the college, the woman from Bostock wasn’t being a jerk about it. Whenever they found family photos or baby shoes or things like that, they’d box it up for the heirs.”
“Then there was a Bostock person on site?” I asked.
“Yeah, some guy from the department of people giving stuff to the college—”
“The Office of Development?” Different colleges used different terminology, but Office of Development was the most common title for the people who managed gifts and bequests.
“That sounds right. He never introduced himself and didn’t stay long. He left his admin in charge—Ingrid Fischer. She was in charge of sorting everything.”
I asked, “Were any of the family members there?”
She shook her head. “Nobody was even close to local, so they were represented by the executor Holden Quincy, who was a lawyer here in town. He was only there the first day, when they had that argument over whether the china cabinet was part of the house’s contents, and then on the last day to sign off on paperwork.”
Sid had been typing all of this in as fast as she spoke. “Who else?”
“There were two other custodians with Annabelle, but if they told me their names, I don’t remember them. I think they were a couple. He was a really big man and she was a tiny woman, but she could lift nearly as much as he could.”
I said, “You mentioned some snotty kids before.”
“They weren’t all snotty, but it was a high percentage.”
“Names?” Sid asked.
“Are you kidding? First off, it was ten years ago. Second, they didn’t introduce themselves. Third, it was ten freaking years ago!”
“Sorry,” Sid said.
“All I remember is that there were six of them wearing matching T-shirts.”
“They dressed alike?” I asked.
“Green one day, red the next, blue, and one day a hideous orange. All of them with the same stupid logo: ‘CSI: Clean Scene Instigation.’ I guess they were uniforms, but I never heard of any such company.”
“I bet it was a student business,” Sid said. “Bostock students have to create companies as part of their course work, and this crew must have been working together.”
“That’s not a totally stupid idea,” Deborah admitted. “If those kids had done more working and less poking around looking at things, it might have impressed me more.”
“Was there anybody else?” I asked.
She thought for a minute. “Some neighbors wanted to stick their noses in, but we chased them off, and a reporter took some pictures. Food delivery people—Umar made sure we got something to eat. That’s all I can think of. Does my remembering any of that do anybody any good?”
“You bet,” Sid said. “This is great stuff!” He actually gave her a quick hug before skipping up the stairs. “Thanks Deborah!”
“What’s he so excited about?”
“Suspects, spreadsheets, and search engines.”
“You know, I used to think being an ambulatory bag of bones was the weirdest thing about that guy. Now I’m not sure that even makes it into the top five.”
I couldn’t argue with her, so I just said, “Thanks for the help,” and followed Sid upstairs.
“Suspect list, suspect list!” he was crowing as he spun himself around in his desk chair.
“We already had a suspect list.”
“But now we’ve got a better suspect list, one that might actually get us somewhere.”
“Shall I get my laptop so I can help with the research?”
“You bet!”
An hour and a half later, we’d made considerable progress in eliminating people. Since it wasn’t just a case of items stolen from the Nichols house, but of substitutions made at the McClelland Museum, we could cross off people who had no reasonable access to the Bostock campus. As far as we could tell from our background searches, that took out all the Hoarder Helper crew and the cheapskate lawyer; and we didn’t think the head of the Office of Development, the nosy neighbors, the reporter, or the food delivery guy would have had a decent opportunity.
Sid summed it up. “That leaves Ingrid Fischer the administrative assistant, the other two custodians, and the six-student cleaning crew. Did I miss anybody?”
“I don’t think so. I just wish we had more names.”
Sid waved it away. “I can track down the custodians on an employee list or something—the descriptions should make it easier.”
“What about the students? It’s not like we have
a list of Bostock’s student companies.”
Sid grinned widely.
“We do have a list?”
“When I was investigating the names Lauri gave me, I discovered the Golden Pages.”
“The what now?”
“It’s an online directory for Bostock student companies. Though Yellow Pages isn’t a registered copyright in the US, they preferred to dodge the issue. Anyway, the Golden Pages is one of those companies that gets bought up by a new group when the owners graduate, and each year they produce a new edition. All the companies are listed, but just by name. If they want anything else, they have to buy ad space and hire somebody at the Golden Pages to design an ad. It’s one of the most consistently profitable companies at Bostock, and bless their chest cavities, they maintain archives.”
Sid turned back to his laptop and started typing. “We lucked out! Clean Scene Instigation bought a full-page ad!”
“Does it list all the employees?”
Sid grinned even more widely. “Nope. Just the company email address and phone number.”
“And yet you’re smiling.”
“We don’t need names. The ad includes a group photograph.”
Sure enough, there was a photo of five kids wearing T-shirts that were even uglier than I imagined, posed as if they were cleaning up a gory crime scene starring the sixth kid as a murder victim. Despite their questionable taste in company name, T-shirt design, and ad campaigns, at least they’d taken a crystal-clear photograph.
“Now I can compare these faces to the people from Lauri’s list, and if they’re not there, I can go through yearbook photos for those years to see if I can find them.”
I rubbed my eyes but said, “Do you want me to take Lauri’s list or the yearbooks?”
“I think you need to go to bed.”
“But—”
“Santa knows when you’re awake, Georgia, and you’ve got work in the morning. Besides, I live for this kind of job! More or less.”
I let him talk me into heading for bed. As I plugged in my phone to charge it overnight, I saw Brownie had called twice more, but again, hadn’t left a message. I still didn’t know how I felt about that.
Chapter Thirty-One
When I drove to Bostock the next morning, I saw Brownie’s food trucks and porta-potties were back in business, but I didn’t stop or even glance in that direction more than seven or eight times.
Classes went well, but when I got back to my desk afterward, I spotted my favorite helicopter parents hovering near my cubicle. Since they’d seen me, too, it was too late to go back the way I’d come, so I took a deep breath before nodding at them.
Mrs. Gleason said, “Hello, I don’t know if you remember us, but we’re the Gleasons. Reggie Gleason’s parents?”
“Yes, I remember. What can I do for you?”
“It’s about the strike. Aren’t you on strike?”
“No, that’s a tenured faculty issue. I’m an adjunct so I’m not affected by it.” That wasn’t entirely true, but I saw no reason to cloud the issue.
“Well, all those angry people outside campus waving those signs are making Reggie very anxious.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know Reggie had problems with anxiety.”
“What? No, I don’t mean that.” She hesitated, and I think she considered giving Reggie an imaginary issue but decided against it. “I just mean it’s making him nervous, and it’s harder for him to concentrate on his work. We wanted to know what accommodations you’ll be making, under the circumstances.”
“You do realize that the strike only started yesterday, don’t you?”
“They were picketing today, too,” she said, as if doubling the timeline made an enormous difference. “The parents’ group on Facebook says that a lot of professors are giving their students extra time.”
“I wasn’t aware of that. The administration has instructed those of us still in the classroom to stick to our previously announced due dates in order to keep the semester on track. If Reggie is having problems getting his work done, he’s welcome to come talk to me himself.”
“Coming to talk to you makes him nervous, too.”
“Then email or a phone call will work,” I said, though having seen Reggie, I was pretty sure Reggie’s only worry was finding out when the next beer bash was. “Of course, as I explained on the first day of class, late papers are penalized a letter grade.”
She looked alarmed. “I don’t think he knows that.”
“It’s in the syllabus, which Reggie signed off on at the beginning of the semester.”
Mrs. Gleason seemed to be trying to come up with another excuse when my salvation arrived in the form of Charles coming down the hall at a brisk walk.
“Dr. Thackery,” he said sternly, “I dislike rushing you, but you’re already past time for our meeting.”
I made a show of looking at my watch. “Dr. Peyton, I’m so sorry. These parents had a question, and I lost track of time.”
He frowned at me. “Parents? I hope you are not in violation of FERPA regulations regarding dissemination of information to parties other than students. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the penalties incurred by all parties for such action.”
“She didn’t tell us anything,” Mrs. Gleason said, either in my defense or her own.
“I’m relieved to hear that. Now if you will excuse us, Dr. Thackery and I have a pressing engagement.” He actually tapped his foot as I said my goodbyes to the Gleasons and packed up my things. Then he rushed me down the hall while the Gleasons watched with their eyes wide.
I’d have felt sorry for them if I hadn’t heard Mrs. Gleason say, “If she gets fired, do you suppose Reggie can get an extension on his deadline?”
We didn’t speak until we were well out of the couple’s range. “Charles, you are a lifesaver.”
“I didn’t think you’d mind an escape route.”
“From those two? Never.” Since he hadn’t quit moving, I said, “I think we can stop now.”
“Actually I was not entirely dissembling. We do have a meeting. I have located the one custodian still at Bostock who knew Annabelle.”
“Good job!” I hadn’t even come up with an approach to use to find somebody.
“I’ll caution you that Mrs. Silva is not the most affable of women, but she agreed to speak to us if were there when she takes her lunch break.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “We have precisely seventeen minutes to meet her, so I’m afraid we must make haste.”
“Lead the way,” I said, saving the rest of my breath for our trek. There was no shuttle bus in sight, of course, so we had to cross a good chunk of the campus on foot to reach the student center. Charles led the way around to the back of the building and knocked on the door marked Employees Only.
A tiny woman with light brown skin, gray hair tucked tightly into a bun, and a severe expression on her face opened the door. I remembered Deborah’s description of a small custodian who’d cleaned at the Nichols house and guessed that Mrs. Silva was that woman.
“Coming this late, I thought you’d changed your mind,” she said with a sniff.
I glanced at my watch. We were, in fact, one minute early, but given Charles’s earlier warning, I thought it best not to point that out.
The woman led the way to what looked like a break room with a row of vending machines, a refrigerator, and counters holding a microwave and a coffee maker. A quartet of plastic laminated tables and chairs filled the space in the middle.
Mrs. Silva said, “I only get an hour for lunch, so I will eat while we talk.” Then she gave us a pointed look. “You are welcome to use the vending machines, but the coffee is paid for by those of us who use this room.”
“Understood,” Charles said. “Would you care for something to drink, Georgia?”
“Thank you, a Diet Coke would be great.”
While he was buying our drinks, Mrs. Silva used the microwave to warm up a
bowl of rice, peas, tomato sauce, and olives. Then she brought the bowl and a mug of coffee over to one of the tables and nodded for us to join her.
“That smells wonderful,” I said.
“It’s only arroz con gandules,” she said dismissively. “So, Professor Peyton tells me you want to know about Annabelle Mitchell.”
“Yes, we’re trying—”
“I don’t need to know,” she said imperiously. “I only want to clear my conscience.”
I nodded and took a swallow from my drink.
“Annabelle Mitchell came to work at Bostock with my husband Sebastian and me. It did not take me long to realize that she was a fool.”
I saw that Charles was gripping his soda can rather more tightly than usual.
“She was here to clean, nothing more, but she decided to be a friend to the students, to give them things they did not need. I know how much money she made, and she should not have been wasting it. I told my husband that she was a fool.”
“Did he agree with you?” I asked.
“My husband was a big man, with a big heart, and about some things, he had a small brain. Me, I’m a little woman, and my heart is no bigger than it needs to be, but my brain is large. So when my husband disagreed, I said nothing more. As long as Annabelle did her job, it made no difference to me that she squandered her money in foolish ways.” She paused, then added, “She did her job well, that I must admit. Thorough and dependable. So not a complete fool.”
There was now a visible dent in Charles’s soda can.
“We worked together two, maybe three years. Then one day Sebastian comes to find me, and he is upset. He says that our manager is saying that Annabelle is in trouble, that she has stolen from students.”
“Did you believe it?”
Mrs. Silva shrugged. “I never saw her steal, and when students leave expensive phones and computers alone all the time, it would have been easy to do. Or maybe that’s why she made friends with students, to find ways to steal from them. So I didn’t know what was true, but Sebastian was sure she was innocent, even when they found stolen things in her locker. He said anybody could have put them there, and I agreed she would have been stupid to leave things like that in her locker. She was foolish, but that is not the same as stupid.”