Murder in the Museum_Edmund DeCleryk Mysteries

by Karen Shughart

“I’m sorry we’re at odds about this, Annie. We’ve been married long enough for you to know by now that my instincts are usually spot on. I truly believe Charles knows or is hiding something about the murder.”

  “I guess my emotions are getting the better of me, Ed,” Annie admitted. “I simply can’t believe Charles would have anything to do with Emily’s murder, but I also do know you well enough to know that you’re rarely wrong when it comes to putting pieces together to solve a crime.”

  “Thanks,” Ed said, and hugged his wife. “I do understand how upset you are and that you’re having trouble believing Charles might be involved. Let me make it up to you. How would you like to go to Toronto with me tomorrow? I spoke with Carrie after I finished interviewing Charles and when I told her what I suspected, she agreed that I should make a trip there. We could come back tomorrow evening or spend the night.”

  “Do you think there’s something in Canada that’s related to Emily’s murder?”

  “I have a hunch that there may be a link to the map and her murder with the department where Charles taught at the University of Toronto. He knows much more than he’s telling us. I’m going to take the map with me and talk with the dean of the department of archaeology to see if I can learn a little more about the projects he was involved with before he retired.”

  “We haven’t been to Toronto in ages, and I’d love to go. If I can get Sandy to keep Gretchen on such short notice, instead of doing a day trip, let’s spend the night. We have an almost three-hour drive each way, and it’ll give us some time together during the drive and once you’re finished at the university, Yorkville has some nice hotels and is just a stone’s throw from the university’s main campus.

  “You could drop me off there while you go visit the dean. I can do some shopping, have lunch, visit a gallery or two and then maybe we could have dinner tomorrow night at an intimate bistro. I get tired of wearing jeans and sweaters all the time, and it would be nice to dress up a bit and eat gourmet food for a change.”

  Chapter 34

  The scenic route to Canada, Route 104, meandered along Lake Ontario skirting stands of sea grasses, desolate beaches and lakeside picnicking sites. Wintering snow geese huddled together among the marshes, with an occasional family of white swans gliding through wetlands and pools of rippling, sun-dappled water that lapped onto the shore.

  At the end of the route in western New York, the Lewiston-Queenston Bridge spanned the Niagara River Gorge, intersecting on the Canadian side with the Queen Elizabeth Way, or QEW, that led directly into the bustling city of Toronto. The fourth largest city in North America, it boasted a skyline along the lake that rivaled that of Manhattan’s, the CN tower prominent as tourists drove into the downtown.

  The night before, after Annie confirmed with their pet sitter that she could look after Gretchen, Ed called and made a reservation at a boutique hotel on Bloor Street, right in the heart of Yorkville, a trendy now upscale part of town that in the 1960s had attracted long-haired university students wearing bell bottoms, tie-dyed shirts and beads, and carrying peace signs.

  Ed dropped Annie and their overnight bags off at the entrance to the hotel, summoned a bellhop to help her with the bags and to check-in, and then headed to the main campus of the university for his meeting with the dean of the archaeology department.

  After being announced by her assistant, Jerome, a slightly built young Asian man who sat behind a large, oak desk outside her office, a petite woman in her 40s with golden brown skin, almond-shaped brown eyes and curly thick brown hair parted on one side and falling to her chin greeted him and introduced herself as Jennifer Ashwani. She wore a tailored blazer, knee-length straight skirt and high leather boots. Her jewelry consisted of a wide gold wedding band, gold studs in her ears and a watch with a small oval face and slim gold strap. She stuck out her hand, and Ed took it, thanking her for seeing him on such short notice.

  “What can I do for you, Chief DeCleryk?”

  “Please, Dean Ashwani, call me Ed.”

  She smiled. “Then let’s drop the formality on both sides. Please call me Jennifer. Why don’t you come into my office, and we can talk?” She motioned him to proceed before her into her office.

  Against the far wall between two tall, narrow windows, a sturdy mahogany desk with an upholstered chair faced into the room towards the door. Along the left side of the room, a leather loveseat and two small wing chairs were grouped around a small oval mahogany coffee table. A bookcase filled with professional journals had been placed against the opposite wall, fronted by a round table with four upholstered bucket-shaped chairs clustered around it.

  “Okay if I sit there?” Ed pointed at the loveseat.

  “Of course,” replied the dean, taking one of the chairs across from him. She gestured towards a silver beverage set placed on the coffee table next to a plate of biscuits. “Can I offer you some tea or coffee? These lemon biscuits are quite tasty.”

  Ed accepted a cup of tea and a biscuit, and after several quiet seconds of sipping and munching, he pulled the map out of his pocket.

  “Do you recognize this, Jennifer?”

  “Of course, I recognize it. It’s a copy of the framed original that’s kept in a small climate-controlled exhibit space containing artifacts from archaeological digs. I can show it to you before you leave. Where did you find it?”

  “That’s what I thought, and I’m not surprised. We found it in the basement of the historical society museum in Lighthouse Cove, NY. We think it’s related to a murder we’re trying to solve that occurred there.”

  “A murder? That’s terrible. What would this map have to do with a murder?”

  “It’s a long story, and we’re still trying to put the pieces together. But before I tell you more, if you wouldn’t mind, could you describe the circumstances surrounding the discovery of the map?”

  “Of course.” She proceeded to tell Ed about a law in Ontario that requires any new residential or commercial development to be preceded by a dig on the site.

  She said, “Artifacts dating back centuries kept on turning up during the building boom that occurred here during the last couple of decades, and the planning commission, wanting to make sure that our history is preserved as much as possible, got the law passed.

  “It happened before I started working here, but from my understanding, archaeologists found the map during a dig that took place prior to development of a new upscale condo complex. The land in question was part of a settlement of traders who lived there starting in the late 1700s, when Toronto was known as York and was part of Canada, British North America. The neighborhood, located north of the downtown, was in the process of being gentrified, and the developers had already torn down a couple rows of factory homes built in the 1930s that had no real historic value. Underneath those, the team of archaeologists unearthed remnants of log cabins and a treasure trove of artifacts dating back to that time.”

  “Interesting. Did they find anything valuable?”

  “Among the normal things like pieces of broken cookware, tools, weapons and bits of clothing, they unearthed a copper box, somewhat rusted, but still remarkably preserved, that they found among the rubble of a stone fireplace. In it were a handwritten map and a manuscript written by a man named Thomas Battleforth. The old-fashioned, spidery penmanship made it hard to read, but some of our staff are pretty adept at deciphering old handwriting.”

  She continued, “Battleforth tells an incredible story, not only about his life, but also about valuable treasure belonging to British royalty that historians had always assumed was lost when a British ship, the HMS Orion, capsized in a storm on Lake Ontario in the late 1700s.”

  “I know about that ship,” Ed interjected. “My wife is the executive director of the historical society, and she mentions it in a history she just wrote about Lighthouse Cove. A son and daughter-in-law of the King of England went down with the ship, and there were rumors that treasure was lost at sea. Divers discovered some remains, but the
treasure was never found.”

  “That’s correct,” replied Jennifer. “But the treasure may not have gone down with ship, as you’ll read in the manuscript. Even so, the historical significance of the manuscript and the map were important enough for us to decide to display them in our archive room, along with the rusted box. Because the paper was so dry and brittle, we couldn’t copy it, so we had it typed up, published and offer that version for sale in our bookstore. I can give you my copy if you’d like. For many reasons, I think you’ll find it fascinating.”

  She walked over to a bookshelf, pulled out a slim, perfect-bound book and handed it to him. “I don’t need it back. I can get another. It should take you an hour or less to read.”

  She paused for a second. “Let me ask you something, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course,” Ed replied.

  “Your last name is an unusual one. Is there any possibility your ancestors settled in Lighthouse Cove?”

  “Yes, right after the Revolutionary War. I was born and raised there. Why are you asking?”

  “I don’t want to spoil the fun by telling you, but I think you’re really going to enjoy reading this,” she responded, smiling, as she handed him the manuscript.

  Accepting it, Ed thanked her and asked, “Do you know who led the team from the university?”

  “Yes. His name is Charles Merrill, but I’ve not met him. I moved here three years ago from Vancouver to take this position. Charles retired before I took this job, but when you read the manuscript you’ll understand why this project was so important to him.”

  “I know Charles,” he responded. “He’s living in Lighthouse Cove and president of the board of the historical society. We found a copy of the map at what appears to be the crime scene, but when we showed it to him to ask him to help us authenticate it, he argued it couldn’t possibly be a facsimile of a real one. My wife asked him to check it out anyway. He took it home, promising to do some research on it just in case he was wrong, but later called and said he was standing by his original assessment and destroyed it without even asking if we wanted it back. Fortunately, my wife made a copy. Charles acted as though he’d never seen it before, which given what you’ve just told me, is very puzzling. Why would he do that?”

  “I have no idea,” responded Jennifer. “He has an excellent reputation, and from what I’ve heard about him, it would seem odd that he’d be involved in anything criminal. But as I said, I don’t know him.”

  She thought for a few seconds and then continued, “You know, the former dean, Angelica Hawthorn, retired to Niagara-on-the-Lake. I heard that she and Charles were close friends, and she has far more knowledge about him and the dig than I do. If I had more time I’d be happy to call her for you and explain why you’d like to speak with her, but I have a meeting in 15 minutes. I want to show you our archive room before I go. I don’t think she’d mind if I give you her phone number.”

  Ed thanked her and said he appreciated the lead. After adding Dr. Hawthorn’s information into his cell phone contacts, he followed Jennifer down the hall to a small, climate-controlled room set up inside like an art gallery, but with cabinets with glass doors lining one wall. The original map, the rusted box and the small, tattered chamois-bound manuscript sat inside one of the cabinets. Looking at the artifacts, Ed shook his head in amazement, thanked Jennifer again and headed outside to telephone the former dean.

  Chapter 35

  At approximately the same time that Ed and Jennifer Ashwani were sipping their tea, Carrie was perusing a brief Ben had given to her about Homeland Security measures along shorelines located near international borders. She had just turned a page when Brad, on duty at the front desk, buzzed her phone intercom and told her that she had a visitor. She closed the brief and told him to send him back to her office. A few seconds later, she heard footsteps outside her door. She looked up, smiled, and greeted her visitor. “Hi, come on in. What can I do for you?”

  *****

  Ed, in the meantime, had spoken with Angelica Hawthorn, who indicated a willingness to see him at 2:30 p.m. He grabbed a quick lunch at a Tim Horton’s Café and Bakeshop and then headed south towards Niagara-on-the-Lake, a charming Canadian town situated at the confluence of the Niagara River and Lake Ontario, north of Niagara Falls. Tudor-style and Victorian homes with wide expanses of lawn backed up to the river or bordered vineyards, which, like their counterparts in the Finger Lakes, had proliferated since the 1990s as increasing numbers of drinkers switched from hard liquor to wine.

  Spring through late fall, buses and cars filled with eager tourists descended upon the quaint town to explore wineries, shop at British-themed boutiques and attend the Shaw Festival, a series of live theatre performances consisting of dramas, farces and comedies written by George Bernard Shaw and his contemporaries or by modern playwrights with Shavian sensibilities. The visitors lodged at inns and beds-and-breakfasts with names honoring British kings and queens, and took their meals at pubs, bistros and tea rooms named for British royalty and botanicals like willow, thistle and cabbage rose.

  Dr. Hawthorn lived at the end of Ivy Street in a charming Queen Anne-style home replete with turrets, wide porches and stained-glass windows. Not finding a doorbell, Ed rapped the simple brass knocker on the door, and in a few seconds a slender, statuesque woman with piercing blue eyes and white hair styled in a chignon low against her neck answered the door. Smiling, she extended her hand.

  “You must be Ed DeCleryk. I’m Angelica. Please come inside.”

  Ed followed her into the foyer of the grand house. She glided, rather than walked, reinforcing Ed’s impression she might be one of the most serene women he’d ever met. She wore an angora turtleneck sweater, soft, flowing jersey pants, and soft leather flats. Her only jewelry was a wide platinum wedding band encrusted with a multitude of tiny pavé diamonds. She noticed him glancing at it.

  “I’m usually not big on jewelry but my husband bought it for me for our 25th anniversary. Stunning, isn’t it?”

  “It’s quite eye-catching. Tell me about him and what brought the two of you here,” requested Ed, thinking a bit of small talk might help create a bond between himself and the older woman.

  “He’s a retired professor of theatre arts from York University. While he was still working, he’d act in a couple of plays during summer break, and now that we live here full time, he also sits on the Shaw Festival governing board. We used to live near the Botanical Garden in Toronto but moved here after we both retired because we not only love the town, but also because it’s much easier for him to be involved with the Festival when he doesn’t have to drive from Toronto.”

  “What about you? After living in a large city like Toronto this must be quite a change for you.”

  Angelica laughed. “Excuse the cliché, but I took to living here like a duck takes to water. We’re so close to Toronto that I can easily get there when I want to, and in the meantime, we get all the benefits of living in a small community like the slower pace of life and actually knowing and being friendly with our neighbors.”

  “Sounds a lot like Lighthouse Cove,” Ed remarked.

  “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” she responded.

  Ed smiled and asked, “So how do you spend your time?”

  “During warmer months, I garden and play golf. I’m also involved in the civic club and historical society, belong to a book discussion group, play bridge, take afternoon tea with friends and attend cultural events. I’m writing a book about the architectural history of this region. We live a comfortable, peaceful and extremely happy life.”

  After offering Ed some refreshments, which he declined, she said, “Now, how I can help you?”

  Ed told her about Emily’s murder, the break-in that had occurred the morning she was killed and the subsequent discovery of a copy of the map. He explained how Charles had denied knowledge of it despite Jennifer Ashwani verifying that he’d been part of a dig that had unearthed it along with Thomas Battleforth’s manuscri
pt.

  “Jennifer gave me a copy of the manuscript which I obviously haven’t had time to read yet, but she did tell me that it has to do with treasure that was thought to be lost at sea during the wreck of the HMS Orion in the late 1700s. I know about that; my wife is the head of our historical society and recently wrote a history of our community, but it just doesn’t make sense that Charles would lie about not knowing about the map.”

  “You’re right; it makes no sense at all”

  “How well do you really know him?”

  “Quite well,” she responded and proceeded to tell Ed that she had met Charles while they both were attending Cambridge University in England as doctoral candidates and that they’d had an intimate relationship.

  She smiled. “He was quite the catch in those days.”

  “You must be the gorgeous woman in the photo with Charles in front of the Tower of London,” Ed exclaimed. “It’s displayed on his mantel.”

  Angelica blushed. “Thank you. The photo was taken when we visited London during our spring break. How odd that he’s kept it. While I did love him, for a number of reasons the relationship didn’t work out, and we eventually went our separate ways.”

  Single, content and not expecting to ever marry, her plans changed when she met her husband one summer while attending a workshop in Toronto. There was instant chemistry, and they married but maintained separate residences for many years because she was teaching at McGill University in Montreal. When she learned that the University of Toronto department of archaeology was seeking a new dean she applied for and was awarded the position, having no idea at the time that Charles served on the faculty. Shortly after she was hired and just before she’d scheduled her first faculty meeting, he made an appointment to see her.

  Because she continued to use her family name professionally, Charles assumed she was still single and confessed he had always hoped that they’d meet again and would be able to rekindle their romance with the possibility of making it permanent. She’d replied that she was happily married but was confident they’d be able to put the past aside and be able to work together as colleagues at the university.