“I had it hidden for safekeeping in the library at the beginning, then gave it to Jerome when he emailed the document service. But when I was let go, I decided I should take it with me to Poughkeepsie until Jerome worked out the details. I thought it would be more secure.”
And all this time, someone was ransacking Etonville for it.
“Maybe I should have left it with Jerome. Then maybe he wouldn’t have been murdered.”
She quietly wiped her eyes.
“We should call the police,” I said anxiously.
She nodded. “In the morning we can go to the station.” Mary hesitated. “I never wanted things to get this complicated.”
“Someone wants that document badly enough to kill for it. They’ve broken into Jerome’s apartment and the special collections—”
“The special collections?” Mary asked, immediately distraught.
“Yes and the Etonville Little Theatre.” I said. “Someone tried to run me off the road the other night.”
Mary covered her face with her hands. “I’m so sorry. I never thought . . .”
“Look, it’s two a.m. Why don’t you stay here tonight? It might be safer than staying in the B and B with the letter.”
Mary stood up and pulled her sweater tightly around her shoulders. “No, I’m fine, dear,” she said. “I’m accustomed to taking care of myself.”
“Then maybe you should leave the letter with me,” I said. “Just until we get to the police station.”
Mary shook her head.
“At least let me follow you to the B and B.”
“I’ll be all right.”
When it seemed pointless to try to persuade her any further, we walked out into the night air, and she slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.
“Ms. O’Dell, I don’t know exactly why you became involved in Jerome’s murder, but you have. That tells me you are a smart young woman with a heart.” She paused. “I hope I can help clear up this horrible mess.”
“I’ll meet you at the Municipal Building at eight?”
She nodded and backed out of my driveway.
My body was beat, but my mind was spinning. I began to knit pieces of the story together. Mary and Jerome were in love. Too lonely seniors looking to get a second lease on life. I reviewed the facts. Mary had found the document and, rather than turn it over to the library administration, told Jerome about it. He’d contacted Forensic Document Services to get the document verified. But verification had never happened. Or had it? Where had the figure of half a million dollars come from? Was it a guestimate? But what had precipitated Jerome’s death?
I awoke early and powered up my laptop. I wanted more specific information, such as what was considered truly valuable—what kind of nineteenth century document might fetch half a million dollars. I clicked on news reports of large auction sales of historical documents and books. True enough, it seemed that the figure of half a million or more for a rare item was not out of the question for rich collectors and well-funded museums.
* * *
Mary sat primly in a straight-backed chair opposite Bill.
“So Mary, let’s talk about the document,” he said.
She sat taller in her seat, both tough and fragile. “Of course.”
“You said the document service was Jerome’s idea?”
“Yes, but he had an introduction from an acquaintance.”
“And he never mentioned this person’s name?”
“No. But when he contacted them, there was a problem with the business arrangement.”
“Such as?” he asked.
“They wanted a thousand dollars upfront just to see the document. That’s before any real authentication.”
“I see.” Bill stopped to gather his thoughts.
“As I told Ms. O’Dell, Jerome thought it excessive.”
I looked in his direction. “Do you, uh, mind if I ... ?”
“Go ahead.”
“Mary, when did you leave Etonville?” I asked.
“Let me think. I received my pink slip March first and was told I had thirty days. But I was not about to let them fire me so I turned in my letter of resignation March fifteenth,” she said triumphantly.
“And moved to Poughkeepsie?”
“I left town April first and sublet my apartment. I only intended to be with my nephew for a few months. Until Jerome sold the document and we could settle down someplace.” She leaned back in her chair. “All we wanted was enough money to keep us healthy and independent. We didn’t want to have to rely on others to take care of us. The letter seemed to be a gift that fell right into our laps.”
If you assumed that confiscating the property of the public library was a gift. I knew what they intended to do was illegal and obviously dangerous, but I sympathized with them.
“When was the last time you heard from Jerome?” I asked.
Mary considered. “We talked at the beginning of April. I think he might have been changing his mind about the document.”
“Why do you think that?” Bill asked quickly.
“Because he was having some problems with the company. He asked me if I was certain I wanted to go ahead with selling the letter. I told him I was.” She studied her hands in her lap. “That was selfish of me and might have gotten him killed.”
“Was that the last time ... ?”
“I called him April fourteenth. I remember because my nephew was filing his tax return that night,” she said. “But no one answered. I waited a few days, and when I couldn’t reach him, I called Mildred. I thought maybe someone at the library might have seen him.” She touched a handkerchief to her nose. “It was too late. He was already dead and the funeral had taken place that morning.”
“Mary, did you have a meeting planned with Jerome for April sixteenth?”
“A meeting? No. After I heard he’d died, I wanted to return to Etonville with the document, but I was frightened. I wasn’t sure what to do. Then I received your call.”
Mary paused and Bill looked at me. I shrugged.
“I thought I should just come to Etonville and straighten everything out.” Mary looked up at me and made a face. “But it was a couple of days before my nephew remembered to give me your message. So here I am,” she said simply.
“You have the document in your possession?” Bill asked Mary, a note of impatience creeping into his question.
“Of course.”
“May we see it?” I asked quietly.
Mary folded her hands in her lap. “It was a single sheet of parchment, discolored and fragile, written by Abraham Lincoln to his son Robert and dated February 15, 1863.”
Bill and I gawked as Mary withdrew a file from her purse that held a piece of paper encased in a plastic sleeve. She held it up for us to see. It was, as she had described it, yellowed and crinkly with age. Executive Mansion was centered and engraved at the top of the sheet, with Washington and the date underneath. It was a short missive, a brief two paragraphs, and at the bottom of the letter was Father, with A. Lincoln in parentheses below it.
We were hushed for a moment, taking in the significance of what we were viewing. Then Bill came to life. “I’ll need to take control of the document and keep it safe. It could be evidence in a murder investigation. Ultimately, you know it will need to be returned to the library, Mary.”
“I understand,” she said wistfully and slipped the letter in the file.
“You should probably leave town as soon as you can. It’s safer in Poughkeepsie for the time being. I’ll contact you when I need to speak with you again,” Bill said.
Who knew what the killer had found out about Jerome and Mary and the document? “Someone will stop at nothing to get this letter. Your life could be in danger,” I added. “You know that, right?”
“I can see that now.”
* * *
Mary and I walked out of the Municipal Building. I wanted to take her to breakfast, but it would be impossible to find privacy at Coffee Heav
en. I thought a little trip to Creston would offer the anonymity I needed to broach a sensitive topic: the diamond ring. Mary deserved to know. I had said as much to Bill, during a minute alone while Mary was in the ladies’ room, and he’d agreed.
We chatted about the special collections, library issues, and Mary’s family in upstate New York as I coasted down State Route 53. In Creston, I found a parking space on the street just outside a café. I decided on café au lait and a bagel; Mary ordered coffee, black; one egg, scrambled; and rye toast, unbuttered. I had studied her while she was studying the menu. Mary was a woman who knew her own mind and wasn’t afraid to share it.
“I’m astounded that you had such a valuable piece of property in your possession.”
“We could have lived the rest of our lives on the sum we would have received,” she said, then laughed. “Jerome was planning on a trip around the world and a house in the country. It would have been a dream come true.”
“Do you see that jewelry store across the street?”
She turned in her seat and looked.
“Jerome did some shopping there.”
“That’s where he bought this?” She lifted the sleeve of her blouse away from her wrist to reveal the gold bracelet.
“Yes.” I plunged in. “It is also where he bought a diamond ring.”
“A diamond . . . ?” Her face transitioned from confusion to clarity to embarrassment.
“Right now it’s in the evidence lock-up at the station. It’s beautiful.”
She shook her head. “Jerome was so romantic. So much more than I had been used to. Before I met him, I thought that I was too old for . . .”
“Love?” I said quietly.
“Yes.” She looked down at her coffee cup.
I waited for her to continue.
“I began to believe it was possible, even at my age. Silly, I know.”
“I think you made him very happy. The night before he died, he was as excited as a little kid. Now I know why.”
Mary’s face crumpled. “I’d give anything if Jerome could be here with me again.”
We drove in silence back to Etonville and when we had reached the Eton Bed and Breakfast, I urged Mary to get on the road as soon as possible.
“I’d like to make one stop before I leave Etonville,” she said.
“Where . . . ?”
“I’d like to visit Jerome.”
“Yes. He’d like that. St. Andrew’s Episcopal cemetery.”
She touched my arm. “Thank you.”
I hugged her warmly. She hugged me back.
Chapter 24
“Penny,” Walter whined, “Move the blocks and tape deck over there.” He pointed his finger in the direction of a handful of cast members, servant types, hanging out in a corner of the stage. They were lounging on the floor, texting, and chatting quietly. “And you lot, dress the stage.” He waved his hand ceremoniously. The actors stared at him dumbly: they still were not down with his lingo. But at least he was back at work and the cast was on stage, slogging through text and staging. But I wasn’t certain that it was enough to have Romeo and Juliet ready in three weeks.
Penny announced an extended break so that Chrystal could do some costume fitting. She handed out the male actors’ basic wardrobe: tights, white flowing shirts—which had made their debuts at Jerome’s funeral—and codpieces. Within minutes, Mercutio, Benvolio, and Tybalt were busy strutting with exaggerated emphasis on their groins. Chrystal was on her hands and knees yanking a pair of tights up the legs of an obese Lord Montague. She had gotten as far as his knees and had braced herself against Penny for leverage. Lola was all Elizabethan: red velvet and satin and exposed cleavage. A much more handsome version of Abby’s costume. Elliot appeared from a dressing room, princely in purple and gold.
“It’s difficult to see anyone else in Jerome’s place,” I said to Lola.
“On show nights, we did crossword puzzles together in the green room when I wasn’t on stage.”
“When he wasn’t out with Elliot?” I said. “How is Walter getting along with Elliot?” I asked.
“Oh, you know Walter. He huffs and puffs. But frankly, I think he’s glad Elliot is around. Someone to share the burden.”
“And the glory, if all goes well.”
Lola crossed her fingers.
Penny and Chrystal congratulated themselves on reaching Lord Montague’s waist with the tights, and rehearsal resumed with Walter prancing around, demonstrating period dance to Mercutio and Benvolio.
I coordinated added costume fittings with Chrystal and handed off a rehearsal schedule for the next two weeks to Penny, who scowled.
“Walter will have to approve it,” she said.
Approve this, I thought, and went next door to the Windjammer to check on things. I holed up in the back booth with my laptop to find some specific information. I was curious what a note from Lincoln to his son Robert, written shortly after he signed the Emancipation Proclamation, was worth. I wondered. Would the sale of a letter dated 1863 from one of America’s most famous presidents bring half a million dollars or was it worth more than that at auction? Either way, it was worth enough to make someone murder for it.
I stayed on the Internet until closing time, digging into sites for information on rare documents and their financial value. I had a list of the most sought-after materials and sure enough, anything with a first-degree connection to Lincoln was near the top of the list. Previous letters by him had gone for amounts that ranged from a quarter to half a million dollars. And then I found the motherlode: in 2008, an 1864 letter from Lincoln responding to a petition asking him to free all of the slave children in the country fetched over three million dollars at Sotheby’s auction house. I closed my laptop. If Mary’s find had been authenticated and a buyer confirmed, she and Jerome would have raked in a fortune.
By eleven-thirty, Benny looked stressed out and Henry was actively pouting—a customer suggested he add a touch more paprika to his spicy chicken breasts. I surveyed the dining room as Benny wrapped up behind the bar and Henry switched off the lights. I would be glad when Romeo and Juliet opened and I could go back to devoting my time to managerial instead of theatrical concerns. Although, the truth was that I liked hanging out in the theater and, apparently, I was doing a bang-up job of keeping things somewhat organized.
I locked up and met Lola outside the restaurant. The rehearsal over and her meeting with Walter and Elliot concluded, I had agreed to drive her home and fill her in on the investigation. Lola and I hopped in my Metro.
“Whew. I am glad this night is over,” Lola said as she clicked her seat belt. “We’ve stumbled through four acts and only one to go.”
“Fingers crossed.”
“If we make it to tech rehearsal, it will be a miracle.”
I pulled out onto Main Street.
“So tell me what’s going on,” Lola said excitedly.
And I did. From Mary showing up in my driveway with the document to our conversation with Bill to my discussion about the diamond ring.
“She and Jerome would have gotten rich off that letter,” she said.
“Maybe.”
“No wonder he was murdered,” she said soberly. “And we still don’t know who killed him.”
“True, but I’m beginning to have an idea.”
I was about to launch into a theory when a black vehicle at the corner of Main and Anderson entered my peripheral vision. It pulled away from the curb, made a left turn onto Main and drove by the front of Georgette’s Bakery. I counted to five and then swung my Metro in a wide arc through the intersection.
“Dodie, what are you doing?” Lola grabbed the dashboard. “U-turns are illegal, and I live in the other direction.”
“Didn’t you see that car?”
“What car?”
“The black SUV.”
“The black SUV?”
“Hang on,” I said.
“I’ll call 911.” Lola stuck one hand in her bag and pulled out h
er cell. “Nuts. It’s dead! What about your cell?”
I pressed the accelerator to the floor. “Forget about calling. Get out a piece of paper.”
“What for?”
“You’re going to write down the license plate number.”
Lola tore through her bag while I tore down Main, closing the gap between us and the SUV.
We passed the Windjammer and the ELT, and were crossing Amber when the black hulk did a quick turn through a yellow light and headed down a side street, picking up speed. I followed.
“That was a red light,” Lola yelled as my sturdy little car began to tremble. It wasn’t used to speeds above sixty-five.
“I have to stay with him.”
I was closing in on the SUV, but I hadn’t counted on the side street being a dead end. The SUV stopped our cat-and-mouse game, suddenly, in the middle of the cul-de-sac at the end of the block. He waited just long enough for me to commit myself to another U-turn before he accelerated, flying past us.
“Get the plate number,” I screamed.
“I can’t see it!” Lola rolled down her window and stuck her head out. I edged closer to the SUV, and when it hit the brakes, I slowed down, too. When it sped up, so did I. We went on like this for half a mile before it was forced to halt at a red light ahead.
“The license plate is orange,” Lola said.
“That’s not New Jersey. It’s out of state.”
“I think it’s three letters followed by four numbers.”
“Hah! I think that’s New York,” I yelled.
The light changed, the SUV shot forward a few feet, then braked unexpectedly, leaving me in the middle of the intersection with a car barreling down on my right. The driver hit the brakes as I swerved to my left and straddled the white line in the middle of the road.
“Oh!” Lola squealed.
The SUV was toying with me. I was beginning to take it personally.
“Can you read it?”
“T . . . B . . . U . . .”
“Write it down.”
Lola bent over to make a notation just as the SUV crossed the town limits and zoomed onto the entrance to the highway. It must have been going ninety because I couldn’t keep up. In seconds it was out of sight. I steered my Metro to the side of the road and put it in park. My heart was banging erratically in my chest, and my hands were damp on the steering wheel.
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