I doubted that an event featuring old Larry Fox sitting at a desk, reading a legal document, would erupt into a rave with a mosh pit. Then again, I’d never been to a will reading before. I supposed things could get emotionally charged.
My mother moved to feel the back of her head again, but Moxie gently and firmly pushed Mom’s hand down to her lap. “I just hope for good news about the house,” Mom said.
“I wouldn’t count on that,” I noted, as I scanned an article in the Gazette. “I think you should be prepared for possible disappointment.”
My mother spun around, and a big chunk of hair went flying.
Moxie looked alarmed, too. But not about Flynt Mansion.
“Daphne, what are you talking about?” Mom demanded.
I held up the newspaper, not that my mother would be able to read the article I was showing her from across the salon. So I summarized, telling her, “There’s a story in here about how the Sylvan Creek Historical Society is counting on Flynt Mansion being deeded over to them in Lillian’s will. Asa Whitaker says Miss Flynt promised that the society would get the house, upon her death.”
“What . . . ?” My mom looked as ghostly as any spirit one might encounter in the mansion she so desperately wanted to sell. “What are you talking about?”
“The society might go under, without the mansion—which Asa says is supposed to be a museum someday. The plan is to sell the house’s current contents, then move in a bunch of old junk from Sylvan Creek’s past.”
Asa Whitaker had used the words artifacts and treasures, but I imagined that most of the stuff that would be on display would come from Sylvan Creek’s overstuffed attics.
Mom didn’t care about Asa’s grand plans. She rested a hand against her throat, her eyes wide with concern. “What . . . ? But . . . ?”
I gave Mom, whom I’d never seen speechless, a moment to digest all that information, while I thought back to the night Lillian had been killed.
What if Asa Whitaker had learned that Mom was showing the house that night?
What if he’d confronted Miss Flynt about her apparent change of heart regarding her property’s future—a decision that might bankrupt the historical society?
And if the will hadn’t been changed yet, Asa might’ve had good reason to want Miss Flynt’s demise to occur prematurely.
Heart thumping a little faster, I skimmed the story again and noticed two more things.
First, the article had a byline. G. Graham. I’d never seen that name before. In fact, I couldn’t recall ever seeing any bylines in the freebie Gazette.
And there was something else interesting, too, right next to the story.
A small notice, alerting readers that Asa Whitaker would not be signing copies of Sylvan Creek: A History at the Philosopher’s Tome that evening, as previously scheduled.
“Hey, Moxie?” I asked, creeping out of my chair with effort, because it was a midcentury modern egg. “Can you bring the dogs to meet me at Fetch! in about a half hour to get Artie’s costume? I think I’ll wait on my haircut.” I looked at Mom, then addressed my friend again. “You seem to be having an off day, styling wise.”
As my mother practically leaped out of the chair, lunging for a small mirror, and Moxie tried to reassure her that everything could be fixed with a little application of hair gel, I patted Artie, told Socrates I’d see him in a while, then left Spa and Paw, headed for someplace I’d never expected to go, in my entire life.
Stepping into the sunlight, I raised a hand to cover my mouth.
How could I be excited—and bored to the point of yawning—at the same time?
Chapter 27
The Sylvan Creek Historical Society was tucked away in a small, narrow building that used to house a bank, back at the turn of the twentieth century. As I pushed through a heavy brass door and entered the gloomy, musty space, my nose was assaulted by the distinctive smell of decaying documents, old printers’ ink, and what I could only assume was money.
“Is anyone here?” I ventured softly, peering around the room, which seemed suitably trapped in time. I could almost see ghostly women in dresses with huge bustles floating toward spectral, eye-shade-wearing tellers, who waited behind the bank’s long counter. It was also easy to imagine a portly banker emerging from the manager’s office—a room now occupied by ASA WHITAKER, PRESIDENT, SYLVAN CREEK HISTORICAL SOCIETY, according to a plaque near the door. The far end of the room was dominated by an imposing, open safe. The metal door had to be at least three feet thick, and the locking mechanism—a jumble of gears and gizmos—reminded me of something out of Jules Verne. The vault’s interior was pretty dark, but I could make out the outline of modern filing cabinets and cardboard boxes, which probably held historical records, photos, and the artifacts Asa hoped to one day display at Flynt Mansion.
Although clearly no one was around, I called softly again, “Hello?”
Nobody answered, and I began to wonder what, exactly, I’d hoped to find by going to the society’s headquarters.
Maybe an old letter from Lillian Flynt, in which she promised her home to Sylvan Creek’s keepers of history, upon her death?
Or a Post-it note on Asa’s desk, with the reminder, Turn self in for killing L. F. ?
Obviously, those hopes seemed misguided at that point.
I turned to go, only to hear something move behind me.
Far behind me.
In the dark vault.
I hesitated for a long moment. Then I walked reluctantly toward the small space and poked my head through the heavy door.
“Hello?” I ventured one more time, although I already felt claustrophobic. I had a very specific terror of being trapped in either an elevator, a restaurant walk-in refrigerator, or a bank vault. My fears were odd, but not as crazy as Moxie’s horror of turtles. Regardless, I didn’t want to give in to my phobia—my rational side knew the vault door wasn’t about to shut behind me—so I took a step over the threshold. “Is anybody in here?”
Someone finally answered me with a soft “Mrrrow.”
Blinking, I peered more closely into the gloom and found the source of the greeting: a small orange kitten, who was curled up inside an open cardboard box.
That very morning, I’d been ambushed by a black Persian who’d popped out from under the kitchen table, trying to sink his teeth into my calf and causing me to spill my morning tea. But the kitten was so adorable that I couldn’t help approaching it.
“Hey, little one,” I said, reaching into the box. I stroked her back as my eyes continued adjusting. The kitten purred loudly, a gratifying sound after my time with Tinkleston. I smiled down at her. “Are you the mascot here . . . ?”
My voice trailed off, and I stopped petting the cat, because I was finally able to see what she was sleeping on, in that carton.
Copies of Asa Whitaker’s book, Sylvan Creek: A History.
The title lacked originality and was less than compelling, to say the least, but I picked up one of the volumes. Turning it over, I checked the price on the back cover.
“Eighteen dollars! Really?” I muttered, tucking the book under my arm. I had some money with me, but I planned to spend it at Fetch! to buy Artie’s costume. However, I really wanted to read at least part of the history, to see if the contents matched the singed paper in Miss Flynt’s fireplace, as I strongly suspected. I’d have to send Asa a check later. Or return the volume after I’d skimmed it, being careful not to break the spine. That was a more likely scenario. Still, I kept complaining under my breath. “This is priced like a bestseller!”
“Do you have a problem with the price—or the subject matter?”
The deep, male voice, coming from right behind me, nearly made me jump out of my skin, and I wheeled around, half expecting to find my imagined ghostly bank manager levitating at the door to the vault, right before he sealed me inside. Forever.
Fortunately, I’d been joined by a living human.
At least, I thought I was lucky, until Asa Whitak
er stepped closer to me, blocking my exit and demanding, with a snarl, “Were you about to steal that?”
Chapter 28
“I honestly wasn’t stealing the book,” I told Asa, who glared at me, his thin arms crossed over his narrow chest and his goateed chin jutting. He’d turned on a light in the vault, and I could see anger in his bloodshot, pale blue eyes. He pressed even closer to me. Was it possible to smell like tweed ? I stepped back. “I was going to send you a check. Or just borrow a copy for a few days.”
“This is a historical society, not a library,” Asa reminded me, still glowering.
“I thought most historical societies included small libraries,” I said, with a nervous glance past him. I really wanted to get out of that vault, like the kitten had done. She sat calmly on the floor near Asa’s office, licking her front paw and breathing the sweet air of freedom. “Don’t they?”
Asa lifted his chin higher. “Yes,” he admitted. “Most societies do have archives. But the materials seldom circulate!”
I felt a trickle of cold sweat run down my back. “Well, is it okay if I take a copy?” I asked. “I really will send you a check.”
Asa remained suspicious. He continued to block my path and narrowed his eyes. “What do you really want, Daphne? And why did you come in here, unauthorized?”
“I didn’t know I needed authorization,” I said truthfully. “I just heard your kitten—”
“Himmelfarb,” he interrupted.
For a moment, I thought he’d sneezed. Then I recalled from grad school that Gertrude Himmelfarb was an American historian. If I remembered correctly, she believed that chroniclers of history had the responsibility to pass moral judgments on the figures about whom they wrote.
Did Asa believe that, too?
If so, had he passed judgment on the past residents of Sylvan Creek—including, perhaps, someone in the Flynt family?
“I heard Himmelfarb in the vault,” I continued. “So I went in to make sure she was okay.” I held up the volume. “And I found her sleeping in a whole box full of your books. I’d read about the history in the Gazette and thought I’d check it out.”
Some of Asa’s anger finally seemed to drain away. I supposed if I’d invested years in writing a detailed history of a community, I’d be desperate to believe that someone honestly wanted to read my work, too.
“Really, Daphne?” he asked, uncrossing his arms and cocking his head. He sounded uncertain. “You . . . you really want to read the book?”
Maybe I wasn’t interested in reading every single page, but I did want to compare the contents with the papers I’d found in the fireplace, and I wasn’t lying when I assured him, “Yes. I really do.”
“You’re the first person to express interest,” Asa admitted, growing wistful. “I canceled a book signing, because no one would commit to attending.” His shoulders slumped. “No one seems to care about Sylvan Creek’s past.”
I hesitated for a long moment, looking around the vault, which still made my chest feel tight. Then I ventured, quietly, “Miss Flynt cared, didn’t she? The society is set to inherit her house—and she read your manuscript, too, right?”
Asa Whitaker spent half his time in the windowless archives of the public library, and the other half in a bank vault, so he was already very pale. But when I mentioned Miss Flynt and the manuscript, he became more ashen than—well—the ashes I’d sifted through at Flynt Mansion.
“Who told you that?” he asked, his voice sharp again. “Who said she read the book?”
I took a step backward, although I wanted to go the other direction. “I don’t know,” I said, clutching the volume to my chest, like it was a shield. “Maybe I’m wrong.”
Asa stared at me for a long time, then he finally said, softly, “Yes. I think you misheard. And I’m not certain the society will inherit the mansion. I understand that things may have changed in recent days. It’s a topic I’d rather not discuss.”
Although his voice had dropped to a near whisper, his tone was more threatening than soothing, and I felt another trickle of sweat roll down my back.
Like Jonathan, I hadn’t really thought Asa Whitaker capable of murder, but as I looked into his eyes, which had grown cold, I could suddenly picture him arguing with Miss Flynt about her decision to sell the house to a private buyer. And then, when things had gotten heated enough to make her stomp away, he might’ve followed her upstairs, into the bathroom.
“I should get going,” I said, using one hand to dig into the pocket of my jeans. It looked like Artie would have a homemade costume that year. Finding a twenty-dollar bill, I offered it to Asa. “Here,” I said. “For the book.” It nearly killed me, as surely as suffocation behind a three-foot-thick door, but I added, “And keep the change. For the society.”
Asa’s expression softened, just a tiny bit. “Thank you,” he said grudgingly. He took the money from my hand. “Your donation is appreciated.”
Then he finally stepped aside so I could hurry into the main part of the bank, where I took deep, grateful breaths of the musty air while Asa signed his handiwork. I supposed he assumed he wouldn’t get many opportunities to do that and would grab the chance while he could.
A few minutes later, I was safely outside the old building, walking down Sylvan Creek’s sunny main street and pondering two mysteries.
First, I kept trying to figure out why Asa wouldn’t admit that Miss Flynt had read his manuscript. Because I was sure he’d been lying.
Second, I wondered yet again why, exactly, Miss Flynt had burned the book.
I checked the cover of Sylvan Creek: A History, fairly certain that the answer to that question was right in my hands.
I just needed to summon the will to dig through four-hundred pages of minutiae to find it.
Tucking the volume under my arm, I crossed the street, which was quiet that afternoon, and approached Piper’s practice. Templeton Animal Hospital was housed in the oldest and prettiest building in town, and I paused for a moment to admire the many window boxes that Piper had filled with purple and yellow mums. The seasonal flowers contrasted beautifully with the structure’s blue-green wooden siding and crisp white trim. My sister wasn’t much for arts and crafts, but she’d also managed to carve very realistic silhouettes of a dog and a cat into two large pumpkins that flanked the door.
I bent to admire her handiwork, trying to figure out if she’d used a pattern or worked freehand.
Deciding she’d definitely used a pattern, I straightened again, finally noticing something new that was propped in one of the windows and partially obscured by a large cluster of purple mums.
A small red and white HELP WANTED sign.
Chapter 29
“Do you plan to help me at all?” Piper asked, waking me from a light doze. She was seated cross-legged on my living room floor and reached over to shake my shoulder. “Daphne!”
“I’m helping,” I promised, struggling to sit up on the love seat. As I rose, I knocked Sylvan Creek: A History off my lap. The book thudded to the floor, startling Artie, who yipped and jumped. Socrates, lying by the fire, lifted one eyelid, then resumed pretending to sleep. I knew he was trying not to see his only real canine friend get sewn into a miniature clown costume, for the parade later that evening. I might’ve gone back on my promise to Jonathan about not demeaning the dog. Artie was going to wear a tiny polka-dot romper with ruffles on the sleeves and collar, and a pointed, polka-dot hat with a pom-pom on top. “I’m just trying to read about our town’s history while we work,” I told Piper, whose eyes were nearly crossed as she struggled to thread a needle in a room lit by two small lamps and the fireplace. “I think the book’s going to get interesting, if I can just get past the part about the railroads.”
Piper paused her sewing project to give my reading material a well-deserved skeptical glance.
“Why are you reading that?” she asked, pulling Artie closer to herself, setting the hat on his head, and adjusting an elastic strap under his recessive
chin. The hat immediately slipped sideways, over his missing ear. “And why isn’t Artie a witch? Aren’t you supposed to match your pet with your own costume?”
“Actually, I’m going as a clown, too,” I said. “I have to pick up my outfit at Lighthouse Fellowship before the parade.”
“Why in the world . . . ?”
I could anticipate all of Piper’s questions, and I interrupted to answer them. “I might’ve accidentally volunteered to play the part of a deranged killer clown at the church’s haunted hayride fund-raiser. Tamara told me I can pick up the costume anytime, in the church. I figured I might as well get two wearings out of it.”
Okay, maybe I hadn’t answered all of Piper’s questions. She still looked confused. “I don’t know how someone ‘accidentally volunteers.’ And don’t they lock the church?”
“No, I guess not,” I said, with a glance at my own door. At some point, while I’d been out, Jonathan had made good on his promise by installing a shiny, new lock. Not that I was using it. Still, it was a nice gesture on his part. “Tamara—who’s organizing the hayride—said the main areas of the church are always open,” I added. “Something about ‘offering a welcoming sanctuary for all who need one.’”
“Sounds like a welcome for thieves,” Piper said, shaking her head. “Or vandals.”
When Jonathan Black had first come to town, my mother had hinted that he’d be a good match for Piper. Sometimes I agreed.
My sister fluffed Artie’s ruffles. “I also don’t understand why a church holds a haunted hayride.”
“Yeah, I don’t get it, either,” I agreed, trying to sit very still. Out of the corner of my eye, I’d spied a small, glum, black face, peeping up over the back of the love seat. Then I couldn’t resist smiling at Tinkleston, which caused him to sink slowly back down into hiding. “It’s Tamara’s idea,” I told Piper. “Dylan says Pastor Pete is worried it’s going to be a disaster, and that Miss Flynt hated the whole plan, too.”
Dial Meow for Murder Page 12
