Historically Dead Page 9

  “They’d probably make me mend their bulletproof vests or design new uniform shirts.” I briefly enjoyed the mental picture of myself, measuring tape in hand, whipping the police force into style.

  “So what did the students tell you?”

  I pulled myself back to reality. “Professor Burbridge was doing Revolutionary War research into Major Samuel Compton. He had some files in the library at Compton Hall about that.” I frowned, remembering that some of those files had disappeared between the time I’d first seen them and the news that the professor had been murdered. Was that Randall, or was the murderer interested in the professor’s research? I resolved to find a chance to talk with Noah Webster without delay.

  “They also told me that the professor was the kind of guy who liked to get other people in trouble. He had these projects he was working on, more current events than history, although I guess he was researching them as if they were history.”

  “What kind of projects?”

  “One was a cheating scandal at the law school about four years ago. The other had something to do with corruption in the contractors’ union eight years ago. Burbridge was looking into the city’s possible involvement.”

  “Sounds like he should’ve chucked the academics and gone into investigative journalism. Too late for that, though.”

  “You don’t know what was going on eight years ago, do you?”

  He shook his head regretfully. “Before my time. I’ve only lived here for a few years. I can check into it for you, though. I’ve got the full resources of the Laurel Springs Daily Chronicle at your service.”

  He looked so excited to sink his teeth into a mystery that I decided to leave this piece of the puzzle to him. “Nosy photographer!” was all I said. He grinned.

  We strolled back in the deepening twilight. It wasn’t until we were within steps of my house that I realized that McCarthy hadn’t taken a single photograph on our entire walk. I glanced over to see that, sure enough, he was without his ever-present camera. “You’re missing your camera tonight, Sean.”

  He nodded. “It happened this afternoon, when I was trying to get a shot of a kid in the act of vandalizing the bridge. He sprayed me with spray paint and it got all over my camera. I had to take the whole thing apart to clean it up. It’s a sorry sight, all in pieces on my kitchen table.” He sounded like he was in mourning, grieving the loss of a loved one. “I missed it just now—that red-winged blackbird was magnificent.”

  “Bummer.” I scanned the porch as we walked up the steps. Nothing out of place, thank goodness. I paused in the doorway, feeling McCarthy’s close presence right beside me. I reached up and touched his face lightly. “Yeah, I can see a hint of purple there, by your left ear.”

  He laughed and rubbed the spot with his palm. “You should have seen me earlier. I think the camera will survive, but the shirt I was wearing is history.” He bade me a cheery goodbye.

  I hummed all the way upstairs. That invigorating walk with McCarthy chased the thought of an enemy right out of my head. I settled down for a long evening of embroidery. If I was going to spend my day tomorrow being nosy, as McCarthy put it, then I needed to get my work done tonight.

  Aileen took off for a gig after nine, and Pete popped in to say hi when he got home well after ten o’clock. He’d started a run of sixteen-hour days working on filming, and warned me that I wouldn’t be seeing much of him around for a while. He went straight to his room to crash. He seemed so tired out that I didn’t even bother him with my tale of dead mice.

  I sewed until almost midnight, at which point I gave up some seven inches shy of finishing my second border. I shook the cramps out of my hands and went downstairs to lock up the house.

  Not for the first time, I wished for a deadbolt on the back door leading to the kitchen. Maybe I should hire Carl Harper to install one, once the Compton Hall renovations were complete. I thought about the volatile contractor, who seemed to be in a temper every time I saw him. What had he been talking about on the phone the other day? I remembered that when Louise Pritchard had shrieked, Carl had emerged from the kitchen with a heavy wrench clutched in one hand. He’d tried to hide it behind his back in front of the police investigators. Was that because he didn’t want them to come to the wrong conclusions, or was he concealing the actual murder weapon? A big wrench like that could easily kill someone if wielded by a brawny man like Carl. Add to his muscular physique an explosive temper, and it wasn’t hard to imagine Carl Harper in the role of impulsive murderer. I shuddered. Maybe I’d be better off seeking out a different contractor to install my deadbolt.

  I checked both doors several times, and made sure that all the first-floor windows were closed. I would have preferred to keep them open to let in the cool night breeze, but paranoia overrode comfort. I enjoyed living in Laurel Springs precisely because you didn’t need to worry about leaving windows open at night, or locking your house and car at every turn. I had a friend who didn’t even know where her house keys were when she needed them to give to a house sitter. I never took things that far, but I always appreciated the sense of safety and community that comes with a small town. A murderer had destroyed that precious peace of mind for me.

  I slept fitfully, hearing noises all night long. Night was the best time to hear an old house talking nonstop: creaking, settling, crackling with the temperature changes. Add to that the noise of two housemates, one who snored and the other who banged around at all hours, as well as a cat who did her best hunting after dark, and it was a wonder I ever got a good night’s sleep. But tonight was different. Amid all the familiar noises, I felt like I heard something else, a sound of scratching outside. It was a faint sound, so faint that I wouldn’t have noticed it except for the fact that I’d left my second-floor windows open to let the night air in. They let in the night sounds as well. I definitely heard something fishy outside, below my window along the back wall of the house.

  I lay still for a few minutes, wondering if I could just ignore it and go back to sleep, but I soon realized that that was ridiculous. I crept out of bed and crawled along the floor to the window. I’d left the curtains open so the wind wouldn’t flap them. The sound outside was louder now, but still stealthy. I raised my head up to the level of the windowsill and peered out. The moon was shining, casting silvery shadows on the backyard. Normally I loved to see the yard in the moonlight, dappled and serene. I hated the fact that I was seeking a threat this time.

  I didn’t see anything at first, but as my eyes adjusted to the light I did see a dark shape in the hydrangea bushes by the kitchen window. Incredibly it looked like a man, dressed all in black up to the black stocking cap on his head. He even wore black gloves, a detail that chilled me more than anything else about his nighttime actions. He appeared to be trying to break in through the kitchen window over the sink—the one window that had no latch to lock it. If he could get the right grip on it, he could simply slide it up and creep into the house, for whatever nefarious purpose he had in mind.

  I watched him, my mind racing. I could call 911, but by the time the cops got here he would be inside the house. I could rouse Pete and Aileen, and the three of us should be a match for him, unless he had a gun. He looked like a professional cat burglar, but I couldn’t guarantee that he was unarmed. I heard the faint but unmistakable sound of the window raising, and realized I needed to act immediately, on my own. I grabbed the nearest thing I could get my hands on, a decorative wooden box I kept on my dresser for knickknacks. I heaved it out the window, hollering in as deep a voice as I could muster, “Get out of my yard, you idiot!”

  The response was overwhelmingly satisfying. The window slammed down with a crash loud enough to disturb my back door-neighbor Mrs. Hevla’s dog, which started barking as if the redcoats were coming. The person cursed sharply. I hoped I’d beaned him with the box. He scrambled out of the bushes and darted past the side of the house. I ran down the hall, collidin
g with Pete at the top of the stairs.

  “What’s going on?” he mumbled, still half-asleep.

  Aileen burst out of her room, her hair a wild tangle. “What’s the ruckus?”

  “He’s getting away!” I ran down the stairs and fumbled with the back doorknob. By the time I got outside, I couldn’t see any trace of the intruder. I heard a car revving several blocks away. “Shoot! We’ll never catch him now.”

  Pete leaned on the open doorway, clearly uninterested in chasing after a thwarted burglar. “Who was it?”

  I stood in the moonlight, staring at an empty street. “I don’t know. Somebody trying to break into the house through the kitchen window—the one with no latch. He was wearing all black, like an art thief or something.”

  “Yeah, like he’s going to steal all our priceless paintings,” Aileen scoffed.

  “Your band gear is probably worth a lot,” Pete said. He held the door wide for me to come inside. But I wasn’t done.

  I scoped around the ground outside the kitchen window, looking for anything the intruder might have dropped in his flight. Pete and Aileen watched me in silence for a few minutes; then Aileen disappeared inside. She came out a moment later with a small flashlight that she shined along the foundation. “Look, a clue!” She trained the light on my decorative wooden box, lying ajar on the ground.

  “That’s mine.” I scooped it up and brushed off some dirt. “I threw it out the window when I yelled.”

  “Did you hit him?” Aileen’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight. More than anything else, she loved a good brawl.

  “Maybe. I heard him swearing. I hope I hit him.”

  Pete finally followed Aileen out to peer at the ground as well. “You keep saying ‘he.’ Was it a man, then?”

  I took Aileen’s arm and pulled it up so the flashlight shone on the window frame. “I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. It was big enough to be an adult, though, not a kid. It sounds weird to call a person ‘it,’ so I said ‘he.’” I glared at my brother. “Got a problem with that?”

  He shrank back in mock horror. “I’m not getting into gender politics, of all things. I just wondered if you could tell who was trying to sneak into our house in the middle of the night.”

  I hugged the box to my chest and turned to go in. “Sorry. I’m a little freaked out by the whole thing, especially after the mice.”

  Pete locked the door behind us. “What mice?”

  Aileen and I exchanged glances. I’d forgotten that Pete didn’t even know about the most recent incident.

  “Someone dumped a bunch of dead mice on the front porch this afternoon. It was horrible.”

  “I took a bunch of pictures if you want to see them, Moron.”

  Pete shook his head. “Dead mice at three thirty in the morning is more than I can handle.” He rattled the kitchen window, shoving it down as far as it would go. “Do you think it was the same person as our mystery man? Should we call the cops?”

  I groaned. “I don’t want to hang around all night talking to cops when there’s nothing for them to see. The guy wore gloves, so there’s no fingerprints. I couldn’t see anything that he left behind. He took off in a car, but we never saw it. What could we possibly tell the cops?”

  “Well, do you think we’re being targeted? First eggs, then dead mice, then a burglar in the middle of the night. Chances are those are all connected.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re not being targeted, are you? By some riffraff from Hollywood?” Pete had gotten mixed up in drugs while trying to launch a film career. He’d served time in jail and been threatened in the past by thugs he owed money to. He’d borrowed money to pay them off, and we all assumed that that was the end of that sordid story.

  Pete winced, and I instantly regretted voicing such suspicions with no proof whatsoever. He shook his head, and after a moment said, “Nobody from Hollywood is bothering me anymore. I promise.”

  Aileen poked him with an elbow to the ribs, eliciting another wince. “She told me the neighbors were probably pissed off about noise from the band. Can you imagine?”

  We all laughed, just for a moment. I picked up the kettle, filled it with water, and set it on the stove. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to point fingers at anyone. No doubt it’s just some murderer, coming here for who knows what reason and messing with our minds.”

  Pete took a box of tea bags out of the cupboard, and Aileen rooted out some cinnamon, curry, and strawberry jam to add to her cup. I sat down at the kitchen table and put my head in my hands. “That’s the most terrifying possibility of all.”

  The three of us sat for the next hour or so, drinking tea and trying to summon up the courage to go back to bed for the rest of the night. Aileen brought a couple of wooden drumsticks up from the basement to wedge vertically into the window frame so the window could not be opened. “These are new drumsticks, I’ll have you know. If they get broken, Pinker will have conniptions.”

  “I’ll buy new ones.” I tested the tautness of the drumsticks. “I don’t think he’ll be back tonight. Hopefully he’s nursing a headache.”

  Finally fatigue drove us upstairs to finish out the night in bed. I was completely exhausted, but after a big cup of tea in the middle of the night, I couldn’t fall asleep. I tossed and turned for hours, trying to banish the thought of a black-cloaked murderer creeping into my bedroom to discharge a passel of live mice to torment me. Just as I was about to give up and get up for the day, I drifted off to sleep.

  I woke up so late that it wasn’t even worth it to go to Compton Hall before lunch, so I simply lay in bed for another half hour before getting out of bed. I felt better after a shower. The house was quiet—both Aileen and Pete were gone by the time I got downstairs. I knew Pete had a busy filming schedule, but I had expected Aileen to be lounging around the house just like I was. I shrugged—who knew what motivated Aileen at any given moment?

  The house was so quiet that it started to get on my nerves. I double-checked the doors and windows so many times that I could have earned an obsessive-compulsive merit badge. Every little sound outside sent me flying to the window, straining to see a dark form slipping around the corner. Finally I threw down my work in disgust, grabbed my bag, and ran for the bus. I’d be early for my lunch date with Marlena Hernandez, but I didn’t care. I needed to get out of the house.

  Marlena and I had agreed to meet at The Pig’s Ear, a rainbow-colored food truck just off the Commons that sold deli sandwiches seasoned with a special sauce that kept customers lining up for more. I strolled along the Commons, watching the pigeons stalking a boy with an overflowing bag of popcorn, until it was time to meet Marlena.

  She bustled up to the food truck line at precisely 12:00. A short woman who compensated by wearing four-inch stiletto heels with slacks or skirt alike, she wore her long black hair pulled back in a sweeping ponytail that reached to her waist. A navy straight skirt and a softly patterned blouse completed her professional ensemble. I waved and strolled over to join her, conscious of my unremarkable khaki pants and short-sleeved linen shirt. I suppose I could have tried a little harder, since I was going to have lunch with a lawyer.

  We exchanged pleasantries while waiting in line for our roast beef sandwiches. We saw each other infrequently, but I always enjoyed spending time with this bundle of energy and passion. Her current project had to do with a dispute between the grocery store franchise and a group of four employees who had been fired for funneling day-old doughnuts to a day care center across town instead of throwing them away as instructed. As she liked to say, she was always looking out for the little guys.

  We settled down on a park bench with our sandwiches, and Marlena came straight to the point. “I heard that Randall’s back in town, with a beautiful fiancée.” She took a dainty bite of roast beef and watched me closely.

  “That’s right. Have you met Fiona? I’m actually
making her wedding gown. She’s a lovely young woman.”

  Marlena choked on her iced tea. Evidently she hadn’t heard this particular detail. “How can you say that? You don’t hate her?”

  I swiped up a dollop of sauce with my finger. “I didn’t know her fiancé was Randall until the dress was designed and begun. I’m really glad I had a chance to get to know her before he showed up. He’s working for the Compton family in the midst of the renovation of Compton Hall for the TV show. I’ve actually bumped into him several times, since I’m doing the sewing for the renovation.”

  Marlena chewed in silence, mulling over this charged situation. “Then there was that murder at the Hall. I remember Burbridge from my law school days. He once taught a class on the intersection of law and society in presidential politics. I was the only one in the class who got an A.” She chuckled. “There was a big stink about it, at the time.”

  “Everyone in your class was supercompetitive, weren’t they? I remember Randall was always stressing about his grades.”

  She nodded, working on her sandwich. “That’s law school for you.”

  I leaned closer. “I heard there was a lot of cheating at the law school when you guys were there. Do you know anything about that?”

  Marlena took a big bite of sandwich, taking a moment to clear her mouth and perhaps collect her thoughts. “Randall told you that?”

  I shook my head. “I heard that Professor Burbridge was doing a research project on widespread cheating that took place at the law school four years ago. It made me wonder if Randall was mixed up in that. He never said anything, but I have to wonder.”

  Marlena smoothed her napkin on her lap. “Cheating at law school is a very serious accusation.”

  “I’m not accusing anyone of anything. Certainly not you! I’m sure you earned that A in Burbridge’s class.”

  She picked at some crumbs on her skirt. “As a matter of fact, everyone cheated, including me.” She paused a moment to let that sink in. “We had one professor, Old Mossman, who required everyone to brief the case for each class, and we didn’t know who would get called on to read that day. If it was your day, he would spend the entire class period grilling you about the case while everyone else watched. It was the most stressful experience of my life. One day a student who shall remain unnamed came to class without having written out a brief on the case. Bummer for him, Old Mossman called on him to read. He reached over to the desk next to him and swiped his classmate’s brief, and read brilliantly for the next hour and a half. Mossman didn’t see, but most of the class did. We all got together on the quad after class and talked about what had happened, and decided to share our briefs from then on. We each picked a day, prepared the brief, and distributed it to the rest of the class. It worked, only because Mossman didn’t require us to turn in our papers at the end of class. I still did all the readings, because I couldn’t trust someone else to get it right. But it took a ton of the stress out of the class to not have to write a brief from scratch every single day. We rationalized it with the thought that any other professor would tell his students in advance what day they were going to present, so we were simply putting ourselves on a level playing field with students in other schools across the country.” She raised her eyes to my face. “We all swore to never reveal our deception. Now that I’ve told you about it, I’ll have to kill you.”