Historically Dead Page 3

  I laughed a shade too loudly. “You should have seen the crowds that turned out to tour the new post office downtown last month. Stamp sales spiked at their highest level since the Forever Stamp was created.”

  “Hmm.” Randall twined his fingers in Fiona’s and drew her hand close to his chest. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about any spike in Italian food consumption. Dinner was mediocre at best, and the service was extremely slow.” He caught Fiona’s eye. “Shall we, darling?”

  She threw me a bright smile. “Gotta go!” She waved as the two departed.

  McCarthy took my hand and twined his fingers around mine in an obvious imitation of Randall. He pulled me in close, his eyes twinkling. “So?”

  I snatched my hand away and shoved both fists into my sweater pockets. “So, I hoped I would never see him again.” I stalked off down the brick walkway, with McCarthy trotting along to keep up. “I used to date him. We split up.” Or rather, he split, taking the balance of our joint bank account with him, leaving me with a broken heart and a pile of debt. But I didn’t feel like hashing through the whole sordid tale with McCarthy.

  Surprisingly, his journalistic instincts did not kick in at this point. He refrained from putting me through the “who, what, where, when, why” litany. Instead, he just eased my hand out of my pocket and held it lightly as we walked through the Commons. “Next time, let’s give La Trattoria a try. I think I just heard a positive review, considering the source.”

  I squeezed his hand gratefully.

  * * * *

  McCarthy dropped me off at home and then took off so I could get to work on Priscilla’s hem. I settled in on the couch in the living room for the long haul. Several yards of hand stitching later, Pete wandered in and turned on the TV. “Phillies game is on tonight.” He sank down on the couch next to me and offered me an open bag of potato chips.

  I swept the voluminous skirt away from him. “Don’t get your greasy fingerprints all over my handiwork here.”

  He grinned and wiped his hands on his jeans. He wore a soft flannel shirt covering a nondescript T-shirt, with a Phillies cap proclaiming his passion. My brother read baseball statistics books for fun when he was twelve years old, and he never outgrew his love for the game. “Nuts! They’re losing seven to three to the Reds.” He slouched down in his seat and scowled at the TV.

  “How’s the filming going for that new movie you’re working on?”

  Pete shoved a fistful of chips into his mouth. “We spent all day at the arboretum today, shooting thirty-seven takes of cardinals landing on tree branches. Pretty cool, actually.”

  I dropped my needle with a start. “Oh, that reminds me. I need to pick up one of those Japanese maples before Royce throws them all away.”

  On the TV, one of the Reds players hit a triple, and two runs scored. Pete groaned.

  It seemed like a good time to ask, “Could you give me a ride in your truck? Just up to Compton Hall in the Highlands.”

  He stood up and snapped off the TV in disgust. “Sure, why not?”

  * * * *

  Pete drove with his eyes fixed on the road, his hands drumming meditatively on the steering wheel. I watched him in silence for a few minutes. He looked a lot better than he did a month ago when he had just come home from Hollywood, fresh out of jail on drug charges. He’d gained a healthy amount of weight and the hollow look had just about left his eyes. There was nothing he could do about his broken nose at this point, but still, it felt like the old Pete was nearly back, as if he’d really closed the door on that chapter in his life.

  He caught me looking, and threw me a smile. “Checking up on me?”

  “You’ll pass. Except for those potato chip crumbs all over your shirt. Disgusting.”

  He laughed and swiped at his flannel shirt. “What’s the deal with these maple trees?” He pulled into the sweeping driveway of Compton Hall.

  “Royce was pulling them all out to make way for historically correct plantings. He was going to leave them on the side of the house for me to take whatever I want. They’re Priscilla’s prize-winning Japanese maples—I can’t believe she’s letting them go.”

  We picked our way through the darkness to the side of the house. I pulled out my phone to light the way. Royce had left an obstacle course of tools and cuttings strewn across the path. The light from my phone illuminated a large pile where he must have left the maple trees for me to root through. I bent over the pile, checking the bases for a healthy root ball that might survive replanting. I shifted around to the back side of the heap, searching. Something brushed against my foot, and I jumped with a gasp. I shined the light down to catch the tail of a mouse disappearing into the tangled pile. I sprang backward, and collided with Pete standing behind me.

  “Not scared of an itty-bitty mouse, are we?” The light from his phone revealed two or three more roaming through the pile.

  I tried to play off a shudder. “Who, me?” I shifted a few more branches to uncover a passable specimen. “Gimme a hand with this one.”

  Between the two of us we were able to extricate the tree from the pile and load it into the back of Pete’s truck. I would have stopped there, but the vision of twin Japanese maples arching over my front stoop led me back to the pile, despite the ever-present threat of mice. I circled around the pile, scanning for a matching tree. I kept shining the light at the ground by my feet, in case another mouse wanted to get too close. All I saw was an old red brick lying on top of a tangle of maple branches.

  I found a second Japanese maple that I thought would work, although it was a good two feet taller than the first. It wouldn’t make a completely balanced pair, but the distinctive red leaves would definitely brighten up my front yard. I got Pete to help me load it into the truck, and called it good. I still had a marathon hem to finish.

  * * * *

  It took me until two thirty in the morning to get through the entire hem. Then I slept fitfully, dreaming of a needle flashing through flowered silk all night long. Morning came much too soon.

  The sun was shining as I waited for the bus up to the Highlands. I hoped the good weather would hold, so I could get my new Japanese maples planted when I got back home.

  Priscilla’s house sparkled in the morning sunshine. The staff was already hard at work. Jamison Royce was working on the side of the house, loading the rest of the Japanese maples into the back of a pickup truck. I knew I had no room for any more, but the thought of those prize-winning trees headed for the dump just about broke my heart. I averted my eyes and hurried up the walkway to the house.

  I heard a commotion when I entered the hall. I peeked into the kitchen, now the domain of Carl Harper, the contractor who had been tasked with the removal of all the modern appliances from the kitchen. He was perched atop a ladder, his head and shoulders hidden inside the stainless steel hood over the stovetop. A big, powerful man, clad in dirty brown work pants and heavy army boots, Harper was a force to be reckoned with. A steady stream of swearing emanated from inside the oven hood, amplified by the gleaming metal. As I watched, he smacked the inside of the hood with a heavy hand, cursing all the while. An industrial-sized wrench slammed to the floor, and I backed away from the door, leaving him to struggle with his work.

  I sought out Priscilla in her sitting room at the back of the house. She sat at a tiny writing table by the window, a pile of papers spread out in front of her. Her long white hair was caught up in a chignon at the base of her neck. She greeted me with a sweet smile.

  “Good morning, my dear. Such a lovely day, isn’t it? Did you see the fairy footprints in the garden on your way in?” She winked at me. “I think it was a night of magic last night.”

  I stood rooted in the doorway, not sure what to say. But I didn’t get a chance to reply. Ruth Ellis entered the room, a massive frown distorting her features. “Don’t encourage her,” she growled at me. “Priscilla, the seamstress is he
re with your new dress.” She glared at me. “Show her.”

  I pulled out the flowered gown with a flourish. “It’s all finished and ready for you to wear.”

  Priscilla gazed at the dress in delight. “How lovely! I’ll put it on right away.” She stood up and gathered the soft garment into her arms. “Please ask Louise to meet me in my bedroom.”

  “Of course.” I hurried out of the room, pursued by Ruth’s baleful glare.

  I searched throughout the house, finally locating Priscilla’s caregiver, Louise Pritchard, on the back patio enjoying a cigarette. Late middle age had fallen heavy on her, exacerbated by a two-pack-a-day habit. Her thinning black hair was overtaken by gray, and her leathery skin was seamed by fine wrinkles. Bent on resisting the changes in the household, she wore an oversized cotton T-shirt and elastic waist pants with dark blue tennis shoes. I’d offered to make her a period dress and apron, but she’d refused me flat out. “I won’t wear no maid’s mobcap, and that’s final.”

  I put as much cheeriness as I could into my voice. “Hi, Louise. Miss Priscilla asked if you could help her dress in her bedroom.”

  “She already got dressed once.” She took a last drag on her cigarette and threw the butt into the flower bed. “Next time, bring the new clothes first thing, so I don’t have to dress her twice.” She turned without another word and disappeared inside.

  I bent to locate the still smoldering cigarette butt among the goldenrod and ground it out with my foot. I found a large leaf to shield my fingers so I could pick it up without touching it. I ducked into the kitchen to drop the nasty butt in the trash.

  Carl Harper had succeeded in dismantling the shiny oven hood, which now lay in a heap of metal on the kitchen floor. He leaned his elbow on the counter, deep in conversation on his cell phone. I heard him say, “The job’s done, dammit! It’s too late to change that now,” before I nipped back out the door. I figured I could take a few minutes while Priscilla dressed to check in with Professor Burbridge about the curtains.

  Priscilla had set the professor up in the private library on the second floor. This small room was distinguished from the main library on the first floor in that it held the personal volumes of the Compton family. Diaries, business ledgers, family Bibles, and the like filled the shelves of the private library. Priscilla told me there was a portfolio of drawings of butterflies made by her great-great-grandmother, and a series of books of limericks collected by her great-great-great-uncle, who had penciled in an explicit set of definitions for each one. I envied the professor his access to such quirky documents.

  The library door was closed, with a small wooden sign hung over the door handle that read “Interruption-free zone.” I lingered outside, wondering how serious he was about his desire to be undisturbed. I fingered the sign, which read “Enter at your own risk” on the flip side. I laid my ear to the door, but didn’t hear any sounds at all coming from within. Finally I decided to risk the professor’s wrath, and knocked softly on the door. No answer.

  I knocked a bit louder, but no one answered. After a few more tries, I jiggled the door handle. It turned stiffly, and the door creaked open. I slipped inside.

  “Excuse me, Professor Bur...” My words died on my lips. No worries about interrupting Professor Burbridge. He lay sprawled facedown on the floor, clutching a pile of papers in one hand. A patch of blood stained his cheek.

  Chapter Two

  I stood in the doorway staring for what seemed like hours, although it was probably no more than seconds. The ticking of the clock on the wall over the bookcase snapped me out of my stupor. I advanced into the room, circling around the professor without getting too close. With both hands pressed to my mouth, I leaned closer, hoping to find signs of breathing. There were none. I backed away, pulling my phone out of my back pocket. With shaking fingers, I dialed 911. In a few quick words, I told the dispatcher I was in the presence of a dead person. I couldn’t remember the exact address of the house. I thought “Compton Hall” would give sufficient information, but the dispatcher didn’t seem familiar with the historic landmark. “Hold on, hold on,” I shouted as I ran through the hall and burst out the front door to look at the numbers above the lintel. I saw Jamison Royce puttering about with the uprooted maple trees. He watched me openly as I concluded my 911 call.

  He leaned on his hoe. “What’s all the fuss there?”

  I ran over to him, and barely resisted clutching his arm with both hands. “I just found Professor Burbridge on the floor in the library. He’s dead.”

  Royce dropped his hoe. He took off in the direction of the library with me close behind.

  “We can’t let Priscilla see this,” I panted. “The ambulance should be here soon.” Indeed, I could already hear sirens approaching.

  Royce walked around the professor, scanning the body just as I had. Even in the presence of a dead man, he did not remove his cap. “Heart attack, do you think?” He squatted down to peer at the thin line of dried blood from a cut on the professor’s right cheek. “He must have hit the corner of the desk on his way down.”

  I heard the tapping of a cane outside the door, and ran out into the hall. Royce followed me out, slipping out the front door as I faced Ruth and Priscilla standing in the hall.

  “What is all this hullabaloo?” Ruth frowned at me, clearly thinking I was the source of upheaval in the household.

  “Professor Burbridge is dead,” I blurted out. Then I took a long breath, willing myself to slow down to try to spare these two old ladies a terrible shock. I didn’t want any fainting or heart attacks on top of everything else. But the two women surprised me.

  “Poor, dear man,” Priscilla said, her face twisting in compassion. “I didn’t think he was that old. Was he ill, do you know?” she appealed to her sister.

  Ruth scowled at me. “Have you called the proper authorities?” She pushed past me to enter the library. Her eyes widened and she fell back a pace at the sight of the body. She backed out of the room, blocking the doorway so Priscilla couldn’t enter. “Priscilla, please go with this young lady to the living room and ring for Louise. There’s going to be a lot of unseemly activity around here shortly.” She gave me a look that said, “Do what I say and do it now.”

  I offered my arm to Priscilla and walked with her to the living room. I sat her down on one of the wingback chairs. “Let me get you a glass of water and call for Louise.”

  She nodded without a word.

  I could hear the sirens screaming up the winding drive. I ran upstairs to try to find Louise. When I didn’t find her in her room, I simply stood in the middle of the hallway and hollered her name. I knew Ruth would abhor the unseemly noise, but it worked. Louise popped out of Priscilla’s bedroom, clutching a duster in one hand.

  “What are you carrying on about? You know the old lady doesn’t like a lot of noise in the house.”

  “Priscilla needs you downstairs.” I sucked in my breath, and then told her the bad news. “Professor Burbridge is dead.”

  Louise dropped her duster. “What, murdered?” she whispered.

  “What?” I stared at her, shocked at that suggestion. “No, it looks like he had a heart attack. Could you bring a glass of water down for Priscilla? I’m sure she’ll want you to sit with her.”

  Louise bent down to retrieve her fallen duster. I was already running back down the stairs as she turned back to Priscilla’s bedroom.

  The paramedics were entering the front hall when I descended. I ducked back into the living room to find Priscilla still sitting on the chair where I left her. I knelt down at her side.

  “All right?”

  She turned her sweet, vacant smile to me. “Such a lot of hubbub in the hall. I hope they show the proper respect for the poor, dear man.” She shook her head sadly. “Poor man, Ruth was so hard on him. Now they’ll never get the chance to talk it over and make things right.”

  “
What do you mean?”

  But Priscilla didn’t get a chance to answer.

  A tall police officer entered the room. “Who found the body?”

  I stood up, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. “I did.”

  “Please follow me.”

  He led me up the stairs to a small sitting room across the hall from the library. He left the door open, so I could see the backs of the paramedics as they bent over the professor’s body on the floor. I fixed my eyes on the police officer’s face, trying to shut out the noises from across the hall.

  The policeman looked like he was nearing retirement age, with a well-lined face that evoked images of a kindly grandfather rather than a stern officer of the law. “My name is Officer Travis, from the Laurel Springs Police Department. I have a series of routine questions to ask about this unattended death.”

  I nodded, and answered automatically as he took down my name and other identifying information. The police had all this information on file from earlier this summer, when I was questioned in a murder case. I hoped they wouldn’t flag me as a dead body magnet or something. At least this was merely an “unattended death” and not a homicide. Still, I didn’t see the need to bring up my previous encounter with the police.

  “What is your relationship to the deceased?”

  “I don’t know him very well, really. He and I are—or were—both working on the Compton Hall renovation for the TV reality show. I’m a seamstress. Professor Burbridge had done some research for me on eighteenth-century embroidered curtains. I went in today to ask him for the drawings, and there he was on the floor.” I clasped my hands together in my lap. “I didn’t touch him. I called 911.”

  Officer Travis wrote down all my responses in a small notebook, and finally dismissed me with a brief “Thank you for your time. I’ll be in touch if I need more information.”

  I returned to the living room to see that a newcomer had joined Priscilla. A large man in his fifties, with cropped gray hair that highlighted his prominent ears and long earlobes similar to those of the Compton sisters, he leaned over one arm of Priscilla’s chair and listened while she talked softly. I didn’t see Ruth in the room, and wondered where she’d gone.