Historically Dead Page 6

  I picked up the file box and moved it closer to the desk. “What’s your dissertation on, if I can ask?”

  “I’ve been researching the Battle of Laurel Springs with Professor Burbridge, focusing on the nighttime events that led up to the decisive defeat of the British forces. I hope to write a narrative nonfiction account of the battle from the perspective of the D Company, the foot soldiers who discovered the ambushing troops before it was too late.” He gave me that tentative smile again. “You’re familiar with the details of the battle?”

  “Sure, we learned about it in fifth grade, sixth grade, and every grade after that. Major Compton has more five-paragraph essays written about him than all other citizens of Laurel Springs combined.”

  Noah laughed. “I’m only touching on him in my research, since I’m focusing on the foot soldiers. Burbridge was the source of cutting-edge research on the major.” He indicated the file box lid labeled “Major Samuel Compton.” “He’s got this explosive new theory that will shatter our understanding of the battle for all time. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.” He fell silent.

  I tried to remember what I’d learned about the battle, which had taken place in the middle years of the Revolutionary War. British troops had surprised Major Compton’s forces at night by adopting the Continental Army’s tactic of concealment rather than marching openly to battle. Many Continental soldiers died, including the major, but the British were finally defeated and the town was saved. Major Samuel Compton was hailed as a hero, with his statue on the Commons as proof. “What was this new theory?”

  “Well, well, what have we here?” Randall advanced into the room, a wide smile on his face. Bypassing me, he held out a hand to Noah. “Randall Flint, Esquire. You look like you’re on a mission.”

  They shook hands. “I’m packing up Professor Burbridge’s things to take back to the university.” He glanced sidelong at me. “I’m Noah Webster, one of Burbridge’s grad students.”

  “Noah Webster, as in the dictionary?” Randall chuckled. “For real? I’ll bet you get a lot of comments on that.”

  Noah flinched, as if he were ducking a blow. “People don’t even use dictionaries anymore.”

  A surge of anger shot through me at Randall’s insensitivity. I turned to Noah with a big smile. “I’d love to talk to you more about all this. Could we get together sometime?”

  “Sure, you can catch me at the university,” Noah said. “I’m usually around the history department.” He gathered up the rest of the papers on the desk and shoved them into the half-empty file box. “I’ll just get out of your way here.” He hurried out the door, hugging the box to his chest.

  I went to follow him out, but Randall blocked my way without actually touching me. “Do you have a minute for a little chat, Daria?”

  I didn’t want to waste even one minute on Randall, but I could see that he wasn’t going to leave me alone until he had his chance to talk. “What is it?”

  He took my hand and drew me far enough into the library so that he could close the door behind me.

  I wiggled my fingers free from his grasp. “What do you want?”

  “I have a proposition for you.” He smiled down at me, evidently sure that I would jump at anything he proposed. “I passed by the old house, and had a hankering to live there once more.”

  My jaw dropped. Live in my house? The two unoccupied bedrooms on my second floor popped into my mind. Did Randall seriously think he was going to move in with us? Not in this lifetime!

  Randall didn’t notice my shock. “I was wondering if you’ve ever thought about selling the old place.” He favored me with his most winning smile. “If you haven’t, maybe I could convince you to think about it now.”

  I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. “You want to buy my house?”

  “I do. I’m thinking of settling in Laurel Springs after the wedding. It would be a fine place to bring a new bride home to.”

  I managed to refrain from either slapping him in the face or laughing myself silly. “The house isn’t for sale. Sorry.” I checked my watch. “I need to get back to my curtains.”

  Randall opened the door to allow me to pass. “Just think about it.” He touched my shoulder lightly as I passed him. “I could make it worth your while.”

  I hustled down to the basement to retrieve my fabric from the dryer. Just what was he suggesting to make it worth my while? He could surely afford to pay for the house, but it sounded like he had something else in mind. If he thought I was pining after our broken relationship, he needed to have his head examined. But it didn’t matter anyway. The last thing I would ever do was to sell my beloved house to Randall.

  I checked the time and then pulled out my phone to call Pete. “Can you come pick me up at Compton Hall? It’s getting late for the bus.”

  He groaned. “The ball game just came on. You’ll make me miss the first inning.”

  “Listen to it on the radio.” I hung up before he could protest any more.

  Pete texted me barely five minutes later, “Here.” I grabbed my shoulder bag and hurried down the stairs. I ran out to his truck idling on the front drive and hopped into the passenger seat.

  “Thanks for the ride. I owe you.”

  He grinned at me. “I’m keeping a tab.” On the radio the excited voice of the baseball announcer celebrated a double.

  I looked out the window, noticing that Pete was driving along the river rather than heading straight home. A nice drive to take us to the end of the inning, I supposed. I leaned back in my seat and watched the mountain laurels flash by. Their pink-and-white blossoms were spent now, but the hardy green shrub that gave our town its name still dominated the roadsides here along the river. The sight relaxed me so that I jumped when Pete spoke.

  “So I wanted to ask you, what do you think about Ruth Ellis?”

  “That old witch? Every time she so much as looks at me, she criticizes me. She and her sister couldn’t be more different.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Pete glanced at me sideways. “She’s a shady character. You remember she was accused of killing her husband in that fire seven years ago?”

  “I remember some scandal about her husband’s death, but not the details. What was the deal?”

  “I looked it up last night when you told me about the professor’s death. The Ellis house in Philadelphia caught fire and burned to the ground with her husband inside. It was ruled arson. Everyone thought she had died in the fire as well, but it turned out that she had unexpectedly spent the night at a hotel outside the city. Well, that looked suspicious. It didn’t help her case when she said they’d had a fight and she couldn’t stand to sleep under the same roof as him.” He turned off the river road at last and headed toward home. “She hired an expensive law firm and ended up being exonerated for the crime. But they never did find out who set the fire.”

  “That expensive law firm didn’t have Flint in its name, did it?”

  Pete grimaced. “Actually, it did. Flint, Perkinson and Hubbard. Randall’s dad did most of the work on the case. I’m guessing that’s how Randall got connected with his current job at Compton Hall.” He pulled up in front of the house and shut off the car. “Sounds like the band’s all here.”

  Indeed, the howling of the Twisted Armpits assailed us as we walked up the front sidewalk. It was a constant wonder to me that the neighbors didn’t call the police two or three times a week with noise complaints. Of course, they may have feared to tangle with the formidable Aileen.

  I chuckled to myself as I walked up the steps to the porch. But the smile faded at the feel of a slimy crunch underfoot. I looked down and saw a mess of raw eggs splattered all over the porch.

  “What the heck?” Pete said.

  One well-placed egg dripped from the door handle, and a bunch of ants investigated a pile of smashed eggshells on the doorste
p.

  “Kids think they’re so cool,” Pete fumed.

  “Maybe that’s the neighbors’ way of telling the band to settle down.” I pulled a tissue pack out of my purse and gingerly cleaned off the door handle.

  “It’s not even late! They can just chill out.” He walked around the side of the house and dragged out the garden hose. “Go on in, I’ll clean up this mess.”

  I didn’t argue.

  Chapter Five

  After a relaxing day on Sunday in which I did nothing more strenuous than transplant my new Japanese maples on either side of the front porch, I was ready for a new week. Still, I was unprepared for what I saw when I got off the bus the next morning and walked down the street to Compton Hall.

  It was obvious that something was wrong. A couple of police cars sat in the circular drive, lights off but still ominous in the bright sunshine. The front door hung slightly ajar, a sin in the eyes of Ruth, who abhorred any thought of flies getting into the house. Suddenly fear gripped me—had something happened to Priscilla? Only slightly reassured by the absence of an ambulance, I hurried into the front hall.

  The house was uncharacteristically quiet, with no noise of construction coming from the kitchen. Since I didn’t think Carl Harper had finished tearing out the kitchen appliances, the calm made me even more apprehensive. A man’s measured tones emanated from the living room. I paused outside the closed door, engaging in the time-honored tradition of all stately homes: listening at keyholes. I could only catch scraps of the discourse, which sounded like one person lecturing the rest of those present. I heard the phrase “blunt force trauma,” followed by “death.” Priscilla? I abandoned any effort to be discreet, and pushed open the door.

  I gasped at the blur of faces gaping at me. The only one my brain registered was Priscilla, sitting quietly in her chair next to Ruth. She looked to be free of any blunt force trauma and as far away from death as usual. I ran across the room, refraining from enveloping her in a huge hug. Instead I knelt on the floor by her side and patted the gnarled hand lying on the chair arm.

  She held a finger to her lips as if I were a student coming in late to class. “Officer Travis wasn’t finished, my dear.”

  The tall, kindly-looking police officer stood in front of the fireplace, commanding the attention of the entire room. He looked pointedly at me. “Ms. Dembrowski.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt.” I glanced around at the people gathered there. Carl Harper, Jamison Royce, Louise Pritchard, John Ellis, and the TV producers Cherry Stamford and Stillman Dertz joined Ruth and Priscilla.

  Office Travis nodded. “To fill you in, Ms. Dembrowski, Eric Burbridge did not die of natural causes. Preliminary autopsy results indicate that he died of blunt force trauma to the back of the head. He’d been dead for a good twelve hours before his body was found on Friday morning.” He paused.

  Both hands flew to my mouth. “Somebody killed him?” I croaked. “Here, in this house?”

  The officer watched me closely, gauging my reaction. “Precisely.”

  He didn’t get any further. Ruth stood up, leaning heavily on her gold-tipped cane. “That’s just it, isn’t it? Someone committed murder in this house.” She glared around the room. “Who?”

  Travis indicated her seat. “Ma’am, please have a seat. The LSPD will get to the bottom of this.” He continued talking about the professor’s physical condition when his body was discovered, but I couldn’t make sense of his words through the roaring in my ears. I looked around the room like Ruth had, with her imperious “Who?” echoing in my brain. She thought it was one of us!

  Slowly Officer Travis’s words came back into focus. “...sorry for the inconvenience, but we are now in the midst of a murder investigation.” He plucked the radio from his utility belt and spoke into it, “Ready to question the witnesses.” He replaced the radio and stood silent in front of the crowd.

  I sat back on my heels, stunned. A murder investigation. That was the last thing I wanted to be in the midst of. I’d been involved in a murder investigation during the Civil War reenactment in June, when my friend Chris found the body and was suspected of being the killer. My hands went cold. I had discovered Professor Burbridge’s body. Would I be the number one suspect?

  “How long a delay can we expect?” Cherry Stamford appealed to Officer Travis. “We have a very tight production schedule here.” She swept her arm to encompass Jamison Royce and Carl Harper. “These contractors are far behind schedule as it is. We cannot tolerate an extended delay.”

  “I understand your concerns, but our investigation is paramount.” Officer Travis turned away, indicating the end of that conversation. He spoke quietly to a pair of police officers who entered the room, and then they began to take one or the other of us off for questioning. A young officer with dark hair and snapping black eyes led me off to the library, of all places.

  “I’m Officer Maureen Franklin.” She ushered me in to the library and shut the door behind us. “And you’re Daria Dembrowski, the seamstress. I understand you found the professor...here, as a matter of fact.” She watched me closely.

  “Yes.”

  Officer Franklin grimaced at my curt answer, and pulled out a small notebook. “Let’s start at the beginning. How did you know the deceased?”

  “I’m working on fabric arts for the remodeling of Compton Hall, so that means dresses and curtains, mostly. Professor Burbridge had done some research for me on historical curtains, and he had found some drawings of embroidered curtains. When I came in on Friday I was going to ask him for those drawings. But he was dead.” I shuddered at the thought of the professor lying huddled on the floor right in front of where I now sat. Someone had hit him on the head and killed him! He had been lying here, dead, the whole time I was rooting around the pile of Japanese maples just outside the library window on Thursday night. If I had peeked in the window, could I have saved him?

  Officer Franklin’s voice pulled me back to the present. “Can you describe what you saw when you entered the room?”

  “The professor was lying on the floor by the desk.” I indicated the spot by my feet. “There was some blood on his face. I didn’t see anything on the back of his head.”

  “Did you touch the body?”

  “No. I couldn’t see any breathing, so I guess I assumed he was dead. I called 911.”

  I watched Officer Franklin taking down what I said, and then consulting another small notebook that she pulled from her pocket. A sidelong glance showed me that it was notes from my first interview with the police just after Professor Burbridge died. My heart sank at the realization that Franklin was comparing today’s answers to the ones I’d given two days ago. Was she trying to catch me out in an inconsistency, a lie? I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying for a calm, matter-of-fact demeanor. I might be a murder suspect, but I wasn’t guilty, so I had nothing to hide.

  Officer Franklin questioned me for over an hour, focusing on the position of the professor’s body and my actions upon finding it. She pointed to the expanse of floor at my feet and conjured up the image of the dead man so many times that I began to feel nauseous. I could feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead, but hesitated to wipe them away for fear of looking guilty. I was sure she had brought me to this room and conducted her inquiry the way she did in an effort to prompt me to give myself away as a murderer. I could only hope that she knew that anyone being questioned in a murder investigation was bound to be nervous.

  Finally it was over. Officer Franklin never spoke the words “You are a suspect.” I certainly wasn’t going to ask. She preceded me out of the library and led me back to the living room. The crowd had dwindled to Priscilla, Ruth, and John Ellis. Franklin surveyed the group and said, “I’d like to speak with Priscilla Compton now.”

  Priscilla leaned heavily on the arms of her chair to get to her feet. She adjusted the full skirt of the period gown I’d ma
de her, and accepted the offer of her nephew John’s arm to steady herself. “How can I help you?”

  Ruth elbowed her son aside and settled Priscilla’s hand on her own arm. “I will accompany my sister while you question her.”

  “There’s no need,” Officer Franklin soothed. “I can assure you, we will be careful not to upset Miss Compton.”

  Ruth didn’t budge. “My sister has moments of diminishing lucidity. She cannot be considered a reliable witness. You may question her in my presence, or you may wait until our lawyer arrives. There are no other options.”

  “Actually...” Officer Franklin bit back the rest of her retort, evidently coming to the conclusion that it was fruitless to argue with Ruth, the human dragon. “Very well. Come with me, please.”

  She marched out of the room, followed by Ruth supporting Priscilla. “John, I want you here when we get back,” Ruth admonished on her way out the door.

  I stood in the middle of the room, staring after them. I noticed my hands were shaking, and quickly stuffed them in my pockets. I turned to see John watching me.

  “You were a long time with the cops. What did they say to you?”

  “Officer Franklin just asked about Professor Burbridge’s body when I found it....” My words died on my lips at the look on John’s face: not mere curiosity or commiserating over a distressing experience that we both shared, but a look of calculation, of discovery. Ruth’s fierce “Who?” echoed in my mind once more. Could it have been John? Did John think it was me?

  “Um, I should go get to work,” I stammered, and fled for the stairs.

  But I couldn’t focus on historical embroidery. I kept getting up and going to the head of the stairs, listening for the tap of Ruth’s cane, wondering what Officer Franklin was learning from Priscilla. I shared Ruth’s concern about the usefulness of Priscilla as a witness, given her sweet vagueness. I didn’t really know if she suffered from dementia or was just delightfully quirky, but she did have a way of distorting reality that could be disconcerting, especially when it came to a murder investigation. I hoped Officer Franklin really was taking it easy on Priscilla.