Historically Dead Read online

  Cherry twirled her hand and said aloud, “That’s a wrap.” She graced me with a smile. “Nicely done.” She paged through her clipboard again. “So, what else do you have to finish up?”

  “Priscilla’s gown is finished, so I think I’m all done.”

  “What about the rest of the household?” Again she shuffled through the papers. “Louise Pritchard, the caregiver? Is Ruth Ellis’s gown done as well?”

  “I offered to make a dress for Louise, but she refused. There was never any talk of making anything for Ruth.”

  Cherry gasped like the damsel being tied to the railroad tracks in an old melodrama. “You haven’t even begun to make a gown for Ruth?”

  I shrugged and shook my head.

  Cherry started pulling papers off her clipboard, searching through them as if they held the answers to all her problems. “That was the whole point—two sisters revamping their house and their lives back to 1770! How can we do this with only one sister?” I was afraid she was about to start hyperventilating.

  “I’m sure I can whip up something for Ruth,” I said in the soothing tone I’d perfected for dealing with stressed-out brides. “I’ll talk to her as soon as I can. Maybe Louise would agree to wear a period costume if you told her how important it was for the filming. She absolutely refused when I asked her.”

  “Stillman!” Cherry infused the one word with all the imperiousness of command. He melted from the room without a word.

  Cherry stood still for a moment, breathing deeply while watching the two guys packing up the pole lights. Then she snapped her papers down on her clipboard and bustled out of the room.

  “I got this, no worries,” I called out as she left. The reassurance was as much for me as it was for her.

  I schlepped my ironing board back up the stairs, then ran back down and brought up the iron, towel, and the rest of my gear. I hoped that maybe the physical exertion would help me summon up the courage to approach Ruth and tell her I had to measure her for an eighteenth-century gown. From past experience with Ruth, I didn’t hold out much hope of success.

  I found the sisters on the porch, drinking iced tea and rocking in the early evening calm. Priscilla saw me first.

  “Good evening, my dear. Lovely weather we’re having, wouldn’t you say? The clouds are high in the sky, so I’m looking for a lavender sunset tonight. The red ones are always so spectacular, but they can bring bad luck, you know. Lavender ones are the most peaceful.”

  “Peaceful is what we need, that’s for sure,” I said. “I finished the curtains for the living room. They’re all hung and look great.”

  Priscilla clapped her hands like a five-year-old. “I can’t wait to see them!”

  I took a deep breath and forged on. “I thought I was all finished, but Cherry wants me to make a gown for you, Miss Ruth.”

  Ruth set her glass down with a snap. “Is that so? Well I have no intention of wearing a fancy dress costume, thank you very much.”

  Priscilla’s face broke out in a smile. “Ruth, darling, you’ll look so lovely in a period dress. A dark red one, to bring out the tint of your cheeks.” She turned to me eagerly, “You can do a dark red one, can’t you?”

  “I can do whatever color you want.” I let my answer fall somewhere between the two of them.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Priscilla. My cheeks haven’t had a tint to them since 1969.”

  “That was the year Robby broke his arm on the backyard swing.” Priscilla’s eyes took on a faraway look. “He had to miss swimming lessons that entire summer. He hated it that Johnny learned backstroke before he did.”

  “That was a long time ago.” Some of the bluster had gone out of Ruth.

  “He always hated it when Johnny got the better of him. Remember I told you that? You do remember, don’t you, Ruth?” Priscilla’s voice took on an anxious tone that I’d never heard before. “Robby and Johnny, always fighting. How can we get them to stop fighting?”

  Ruth leaned over and laid a hand on Priscilla’s knee. “They don’t fight anymore, Priscilla.” She turned to me, the steel returning to her voice. “I trust you’re not contemplating dressing my son John out in Revolutionary War garb as well?”

  My mouth fell open. “I sincerely hope not! I can come up with a quick gown for you, but a man’s coat is another matter.”

  Priscilla giggled. “John would look so handsome in a Revolutionary War coat. He’d be the spitting image of our famous ancestor, Major Samuel Compton.”

  I was relieved that she seemed to be returning to the present. “Shall we go with a dark red gown, then?” I knew I didn’t have any red fabric on hand, so I’d need to make a quick trip to the fabric store before closing time.

  Ruth heaved an exasperated sigh. “Very well.” She pulled herself to her feet and preceded me into the house where she suffered me to take her measurements.

  “My understanding is that all the renovations are to be completed by tomorrow morning, with final filming scheduled for Friday.”

  I nodded as I jotted down her back to waist measurement. “I’ll do the best I can. This will be a very simple gown, so it shouldn’t take too long.” I tucked my notebook back into my sewing bag. “I’d better get started.”

  Ruth watched me silently as I hurried out of the room. I pulled out my phone and checked my messages. I’d gotten three texts from McCarthy in the past half hour: “Dinner?” “Not dinner?” and “Maybe dessert?” A fourth was coming in: “Want to know what I know?”

  I typed back, “Yeah. Pick me up at C Hall.”

  McCarthy arrived a few minutes later and waved out the window of his snazzy new sports car. He had the sunroof open and the sleeves rolled up on his white button-down shirt.

  When I hopped in the passenger seat, I glanced at the center console. “I see you’ve got your camera back.”

  He peeled out from the curb. “Good as new. Except for that one patch of purple that I couldn’t get out of the strap. I’ll forever be reminded of my vulnerability to spray paint.”

  I laughed, fingering the unmistakably purple spot on the camera strap. “Hey, can you take me to the fabric store? I’ve got a new eighteenth-century dress to make before tomorrow morning.”

  “Wow! The nosy seamstress has her nose to the grindstone. And here I thought you were accepting my invitation to have dinner and talk about corruption.” He obligingly changed course and headed for the fabric store in the mall east of town.

  “Maybe we could talk about corruption while searching for dark red fabric. Did you find out about the scandal with the contractors’ union?”

  He tapped his palms on the steering wheel and sang along to the oldies show on the radio.

  I rolled my eyes. “What do the Beatles know about money buying love? Was the contractors’ union scandal about money?”

  “Well, it wasn’t about love.” He turned down the radio. “The contractors’ union was trying to get the city assembly to lighten up on code violations. They said they didn’t want to get the code requirements changed; they just wanted more properties grandfathered in to the old code requirements that weren’t so strict. It wasn’t an unreasonable suggestion, given the sheer number of older homes that were built in the dark ages, before city code required no more than four inches between balcony rail posts, for instance. But the city assembly wouldn’t go for it. So the contractors’ union hired a big-name lobbyist for an insane sum of money to try to change the minds of the assembly members. Said lobbyist wined and dined the assembly members, sent them Christmas hams and tickets to the Sixers’ games, and guess what happened.”

  “Hmm, let me think. Did the city assembly cave and relax their code requirements?”

  “Give the woman a cigar!” He turned into the mall parking lot and eased into a parking space.

  “So what’s the big deal? Is this some kind of secret information to make it wort
h Professor Burbridge’s while to research it?” I gathered up my bag and hopped out of the car. We walked together into the mall.

  McCarthy shrugged. “This is all public information, straight from the Daily Chronicle archives. There was a stink at the time about ethics and undue influence, but at the end of the day, the code regulations were more lenient than before friend lobbyist came to town.” He gazed about him as we entered the fabric store and I made a beeline to the patterned calico fabric along the far wall. “I don’t get to spend much time in here.”

  “It’s my second home.” I scanned along the rows of red calico, looking for a dark shade that might in fact bring out the tint in Ruth’s cheeks.

  “But here’s the interesting part.” McCarthy leaned in close and lowered his voice to give his next words a flavor of mystique. “The contractors’ union got what they wanted, apparently. But they refused to pay the lobbyist their agreed upon amount. They claimed that he employed tactics that they couldn’t condone, so they backed out of their contract. The lobbyist sued, the union stood firm, and more money has gone to the lawyers than was ever spent to either hire the lobbyist or to woo the assembly members. Guess who’s representing the contractors’ union in the dispute?”

  I picked up a bolt of sprigged cotton in a deep red shade and held a fold of the fabric up to my face to study in the mirror. “Please say it isn’t Flint, Perkinson and Hubbard.”

  “Bingo! It sounds like a simple matter of breach of contract, but the litigation has stretched out for almost eight years now.” He pulled out a fold of geometric fabric in a hideous mix of green and purple. “How about this one?”

  I shook my head, refraining from commenting on his lamentable taste. “So what’s the mystery about this lawsuit?”

  McCarthy shrugged. “No idea. That’s what your professor was researching, I’m guessing. Do you suppose he uncovered a smoking gun?”

  I cringed at his choice of words. True, Professor Burbridge was bludgeoned, not shot, but still...

  I draped the deep red calico around my body to get an idea of the pattern on a larger scale. It looked fine, plus it complemented Priscilla’s lavender gown, so the two sisters could sit side by side for the TV filming. I toted the bolt over to the cutting table to get it measured and cut.

  McCarthy leaned an elbow on the counter, watching the saleslady measure out twelve yards of fabric for me. “So, my nosy seamstress friend, are you planning to complete the professor’s research, or what?”

  I picked up the thick bundle of fabric and the cutting slip to take to the cash register. “What. I’d say I’ve got my work cut out for me for the next twenty-four hours or so. Of course, I still have to cut it out.”

  He grinned at my lame joke. “So, no dinner tonight?”

  I shook my head regretfully. We settled for a trip through the drive-through for burgers and fries, and then McCarthy dropped me off at my house. He walked me to the door instead of dropping me at the curb like he usually did. I wondered what was behind this unusual solicitude, until I saw him scanning the porch floor, looking for dead mice or raw eggs, no doubt. Thankfully there was nothing amiss, unless you counted the deafening noise of the band in full cry in the basement. I shouted my thanks to McCarthy for accompanying me to the fabric store, and he waved a cheery goodbye.

  I almost headed straight upstairs to cut out Ruth’s gown, but my conscience wouldn’t let me skip the important step of washing the fabric to shrink it before cutting and sewing. I carted it down to the basement, sidestepping the band, and popped it in the washing machine.

  While the wash cycle ran, I retrieved the bodice pattern from Priscilla’s gown, and modified it to fit Ruth’s measurements. The sisters were both thin, but Ruth was a good six inches taller, with longer arms and legs to match. I had to simplify the pattern as well as alter the size, since I didn’t have time for fancy embellishments on the sleeves and neckline. I settled for a plain square neckline to be covered by a white batiste fichu, and white batiste ruffles at the end of each sleeve. While the red fabric tumbled in the dryer, I cut out the fichu and ruffles, and ran up their seams on my machine. Sorry, no painstaking hand stitching tonight!

  I rushed through the hot work of ironing twelve yards of cotton fabric and laid it out on the floor of my workroom to cut out the dress. I glanced at the clock. It was almost eleven o’clock, and I was just now making the first cut. What possessed me to say I could finish an entire eighteenth-century gown in one evening? I pushed that thought to the back of my mind before I started to panic, and doggedly pinned and cut out the bodice, sleeves, and skirt.

  What I hadn’t told McCarthy was the fact that the act of cutting and sewing only occupied a portion of my concentration, leaving me ample opportunity to think. Maybe I wasn’t snooping in the professor’s business or interviewing his colleagues, but I was still working out the clues in my mind. Although I did need to talk to Noah Webster as soon as I could. I resolved to pay a visit to Oliphant University as soon as I finished Ruth’s gown.

  Once the bodice was all cut out, it was a fairly simple task to sew it together. The V-shaped panel in the front alleviated the need for darts, so any necessary alterations could take place in the side seams. Fitting the dress would go so much quicker in the morning.

  I hummed and sewed and thought about McCarthy’s revelations. I truly didn’t know what to do with the information about the contractors’ union, the lobbyist, and the city assembly. I snipped thread ends, and tried to picture how this story could intersect with the cast of characters at Compton Hall, where the professor was murdered. Carl Harper was a general contractor—surely he belonged to the contractors’ union. Did he have some secret related to that litigation that he would kill to keep private? Again I wondered who he’d been talking to on those two occasions, and what he and the caller had been talking about.

  Then there was Jamison Royce, the landscape artist. Did he count as a contractor, and if so, was he a union member? If not, what union did he belong to, and where did they stand in relation to the litigation between the lobbyist and the contractors’ union? I called up a mental image of Royce, with his head completely hidden under his peculiar work cap with the flaps that covered his ears, leaving only his beard to indicate the color of his hair. I remembered that he’d been second on the scene of finding the professor’s body. He’d seemed concerned at the time, and was helpful in terms of keeping things matter of fact. But what did I really know about him, other than the fact that he was willing to destroy prize-winning Japanese maples on the whim of a TV show that would do their filming and then move on? Those maple trees could have lived another fifty years, easily. What did the gardeners’ union think of someone who would tear up beautiful living plants like that, I wondered? But maybe that was just my own sensibilities. My sewing machine whirred as I fed the voluminous skirt under the presser foot. What would the historical seamstress union, if there was one, think of me planning to run up the hem in an eighteenth-century skirt by machine? I guess it was all a matter of perspective.

  It wasn’t until I went to bed exhausted, with aching back and cramped fingers, that I recalled where I had seen a weathered red brick before today. It was all by itself on top of a pile of Japanese maple branches on the side of Compton Hall, below the window of the library, where a man had died of blunt force trauma to the head. The murder weapon!

  I was wide awake now. The presence of one of Carl Harper’s bricks on the ground outside the library window didn’t prove that he was the murderer, of course. Anyone in the house could have picked up a brick from the kitchen. But maybe the police could get some fingerprints off it, if they were able to find the brick. I resolved to call them in the morning. It was well after three in the morning before I finally fell asleep, to dream uneasily about clients owing me huge sums of money, which they paid off in miniature Japanese maples.

  I woke up late to the sound of my phone dinging. I’d received a sh
ort text from Marlena. It read: “Speaking of Randall, I heard his law firm got broken into last night.”

  Chapter Nine

  I called the police first thing, and told them about the brick on top of the maple branches. The officer who took my call listened to my description, but refused to tell me if the police already knew about this potential murder weapon. “Thank you for your information,” was all she would say.

  I called McCarthy next, to let him know about the break-in. He hadn’t heard about it yet.

  “Once again, the nosy seamstress gets the information first. So what’s your plan of action?” he asked.

  I groaned. “No plan. I have to fit Ruth’s gown this morning so the filming can go ahead.” I shifted the phone to my shoulder so I could pour myself a bowl of cereal. “They’re breathing down my neck as it is.”

  “Oh, let ’em sweat. What are the chances that this break-in is related to the professor’s murder? I’d say pretty darn good!”

  I plopped the bowl down on the kitchen table. “Okay, I’ll give you that. But I’m a seamstress, not an investigator, remember?”

  He laughed. “A nosy seamstress, who loves to poke that nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Well, maybe not this time. But I think I know who I can count on to do it justice.”

  “All right, if you’re sure you’re okay with passing up this opportunity to do your own snooping. I’ll go to Philly to the offices of Flint, Perkinson and Hubbard and take photos of the break-in scene, and see what I can find out. I’m tied up this morning, but I’ll get there before they close for the day.”

  “I’m sure you’ll charm them with your irresistible personality and they will tell you all about what the intruders were looking for.”

  He was still chuckling when I hung up.

  I hurried through my breakfast and caught the 9:10 bus for the Highlands. The bus wasn’t crowded—the office workers were already at their desks, and the shopping crowd had some time before the stores opened at 10:00. I didn’t know how early Ruth got up in the morning, but I needed to fit her gown and get it finished before Cherry had conniptions.