by Vella Munn
Chapter Three
The three steps leading into the Comstock Museum were broadly spaced. Beyond the cement stoop was a twelve-foot-high hardwood door, so weathered that the original carvings were barely discernible. Turning the handle took strength.
The carpet under Kim’s feet had been beaten into submission by thousands of feet. It stretched the length of a dark hallway with a ceiling higher than the door she’d come through. Lighting was provided by gas lamps set at infrequent intervals down the length of the hall. A woman with sagging cheeks and curious eyes stared at her from behind a solid circular desk just inside the door. Kim took quick note of the “ordinary” or high-wheeled bicycle on display on the opposite side of the entry, at the base of a wide staircase that led to the building’s second story.
“Would you like to sign the guest book?” The soft question echoed in the oversize foyer.
Kim kept her voice low to prevent her words from reverberating. “I’m looking for Rogan Coffers. I have an appointment with him.”
“Oh.” The woman’s interest in Kim went up a notch. “His office is to your right. Through those doors. They stick sometimes.”
This was one of those times. Kim guessed that settling of the old brick building and uneven climate control was responsible. As she stepped into the staff work area, Kim’s eyes were forced to compensate for leaving the dark corridor and entering a room with a large window through which the morning sun shone. A thin young man looked up from the copy machine he was using.
“Rogan Coffers?” Kim asked. The man she’d spoken to over the phone had sounded older.
“Hardly.” The young man’s laugh was brittle. “His office is around the corner there. The director gets his own turf, you know.”
Because Kim didn’t know whether she was expected to say anything in response, she simply smiled and headed in the direction the man had indicated. Like the hall, this room had an extremely high ceiling. And Kim was concerned about the haphazard stacking of the aged manuscripts and books that she noticed as she walked. If she was a betting woman, she’d wager that cataloging of artifacts was haphazard and not up-to-date. Still, Kim would wait to make a judgment until she’d seen the system at work.
At least this door opened without sticking. Kim caught the scent of pipe smoke clinging to a strange cool damp smell.
A tall but sparsely built man, dressed in a navy-blue suit, sat behind a massive oak desk. He held a pipe in one hand. He was talking on the phone. “We’ve had that agreement challenged before. Yes. Of course he can contest it, but we’ve been assured it’s binding. No. I’m not interested in meeting with the executor. All right. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
The man who Kim guessed was in his early fifties hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair. Its springs protested weakly. “Yes?”
The man did not look pleased to see her. “I’m Kim Revis. And I’m sorry if my being late has disrupted your schedule.”
“Ms. Revis. Sit down.”
Kim’s first impression of Rogan Coffers was that a museum was the perfect setting for him. His hair, what there was of it, was more gray than brown. Someone had gone to great effort to try to cover the bald spots. His suit, although expensive, didn’t fit him particularly well. His hands very possibly were softer than hers. Right for someone who spent his days in contact with fragile antiques. But it was the pipe that rooted him firmly in his surroundings. Rogan Coffers looked the type to find a position as a university professor, or at the helm of an extensive if not progressive museum.
As Kim sat down, Rogan said something about wondering if there’d been a mix-up on the time for the meeting. “I had a great deal to keep me busy,” he was saying. “Your being late wasn’t that much of an inconvenience, however, I hope this doesn’t set a precedent.”
Kim quickly explained about the cave-in and her necessary conversation with the city attorney. “I’m sorry. I should have tried to reach you,” she wound up. “But there really was no opportunity.”
“A cave-in?” Kim had the man’s full attention. “Where?”
Kim explained. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. I guess it’s up to the city council, but—”
“They’re incompetent.” Rogan leaned forward. “Where does the tunnel go?”
“I have no idea. I wasn’t thinking about that.”
“You were talking to Stockton. What does he have to say?”
“Not much,” Kim hedged. If she trusted first impressions, which she tried not to do, Rogan Coffers wouldn’t have scored very high on her list. “I don’t think anyone knows what to think yet.”
Rogan leaned back, crossed one leg over the other and puffed deeply on his pipe. “I’ll have to drive by and take a look at it. I hadn’t heard, but then I’ve been quite busy since I got here this morning.” Rogan recrossed his legs. “I’m certain it has the locals agitated. It isn’t often they have this much to talk about.”
Rogan was still talking. “Excuse me for being critical about the town and its people. It’s an occupational hazard. Ms. Revis, we’re in the never-ending position of trying to explain that, although the museum is located in Camp Oro, it is not an instrument of the town. The town doesn’t dictate policy for us, and we make a point of remaining removed from its politics. Yes, we focus on local history and being located in an historic town has increased our credibility within museum circles. But our funding base covers a four-county area. And of course there’s assistance on the federal level.”
“I’m aware of that.”
Rogan’s voice, like the receptionist’s, echoed off the high ceiling. “We have enough political dynamics existing within the museum system. Diverse personalities all vying for attention. We don’t need to involve ourselves with the way this town is run.”
“I see.” According to her contract, Kim was an employee of the museum board and as such on a par with the director. It was time for that fact to be established. “When I called, you said you were going to try to set up a meeting with the other museum employees concerned with security. Is that still possible today?”
Rogan glanced at his watch. “I suppose. Not that anyone’s going to be too happy about this. I asked our security guard and the business manager to sit in. His concern, if I can nail him down at this late hour, will be the cost of whatever you propose. There’s—” Here Rogan’s smile became brittle. “There’s also Anthea Norval. She’s our volunteer special activities director.”
“Is she involved with security?”
“Yes and no.” Rogan spoke without taking the pipe from his mouth. “Mrs. Norval’s concern is that the security system not interfere in any way with public access to the building. She’s a businesswoman in her own right. Very influential. It’s hard to say no to Mrs. Norval.”
Kim found it difficult to accept that explanation for allowing the woman to sit in on the meeting, but said nothing. In the week since she’d first heard from Stephan Jarvis, he’d called twice more. The Comstock Museum had been robbed again; he wasn’t sure exactly when the thefts had taken place. A complete English, hand-engraved coffee-and-tea service and the museum’s only Gatsby chair were now missing. Kim had asked if that was all that had been taken this time, but the board members weren’t sure. All they knew was that they were frantic and frustrated.
As Kim sat across from Rogan waiting for him to locate the people she would be meeting with, she turned Stephan’s words over in her mind. A tea service could be spirited out under someone’s coat, but a Gatsby chair? Unless there was no one watching the doors, or whoever was supposed to be doing that was in on the theft, Kim had no idea how a chair could have been removed. Granted, her responsibility was to upgrade the museum’s security system, not play detective, but she was determined to do more listening than talking about the thefts. If the thief was a museum employee—or even a board member—she wasn’t about to impede the police investigation by saying more than was absolutely necessary. Perhaps, simply by being here, she could learn more than a man in uniform mi
ght.
Kim gave herself a mental head shaking. She was knowledgeable about electromagnetic locking devices and transmitter/sensor combinations, not detective work. She was here to assess, come up with a comprehensive plan and oversee installation of the selected security devices.
Rogan got to his feet. “They’re still here. We’ll meet in the conference room.” As he escorted Kim out of his office and down the hall, he asked about the Wells Fargo History Room and the National Maritime Museum, both San Francisco institutions. Kim satisfied his curiosity while taking note of the tintype photographs gracing both sides of the hall. Most of the pictures were either of mining day Camp Oro or early logging operations. A cracked and faded photograph of Lake Tahoe piqued her interest as to how and when it had been taken, but there was no opportunity to ask questions.
Rogan was standing in front of yet another door, his hand on the doorknob. Instead of opening it, he faced Kim. “I’d like to get one thing straight between us. Hiring you was the board’s idea. It was not what I recommended. They went over my head.”
Kim said nothing. Although she was tense, she was glad this moment had come. Rogan had let her know that he considered the board’s move an intrusion on his authority. She gave Rogan what she hoped was a controlled nod and stepped past him.
In the sparsely furnished cool room two men and a woman sat waiting at a battered conference table. Introductions went so quickly that Kim was given little opportunity to gain more than a fleeting impression. “Good luck,” Mark had warned. The words came back to her now.
The woman was Anthea Norval. She was as imposing as her name. The middle-aged man in a loose fitting, rumpled shirt and stained jeans was introduced as the museum’s lone security guard, William Lynch. Garner Dillon was a muscular man with a blatant sensuality made even more obvious by his skintight knit shirt and the dark slacks clinging to his muscular thighs. Garner was, Rogan explained, the museum’s business manager.
“I was on my way to the annex when you reached me,” Anthea started before either Rogan or Kim sat down. Slowly she fastened the gold buttons on her immaculate wool blazer. “I’d been led to believe we were going to meet at 9:00 a.m. Now I’m going to have to rearrange my entire day.”
Stuffy. Self-important. Kim stopped the instant analysis. The fiftyish woman had a right to be irritated. “I’m afraid the delay was my fault,” Kim said, and then gave a thumbnail sketch of the way her day had begun.
“So you’ve met Mark Stockton,” Anthea interrupted before Kim was finished. “What do you think of the man?”
“What do I think of Mr. Stockton?” Kim repeated. “I don’t believe in giving first impressions much weight. However, he impressed me as a take-charge type.”
“You’re astute, Ms. Revis. He certainly is that. Mark my words, the town’s going to be in trouble if they don’t keep him in line. It’s no secret that he already runs the council. They do whatever he says.”
Garner’s snort was sharp enough to break Kim’s concentration. The business manager flashed his perfect teeth at her. “You don’t like the man because he plays a better game of hardball than you do, Anthea. One thing you need to understand, Ms. Revis. Personality conflicts are the name of the game around here. Everyone has their own ax to grind, their own nest to feather.”
“Ms. Revis is not interested in your uncalled-for remarks,” Anthea was saying. “I want it on record that I believe this concern with security is long overdue.” She shot the silent security guard a pointed look before returning her attention to Kim. “If our business manager wasn’t so tightfisted, we’d have more than one man, who should have been retired years ago, safeguarding our priceless antiques.”
“That isn’t your field, Anthea,” Garner shot back. “Your function is to do what little you can to keep the museum in touch with community interests and concerns. Do you know what her group’s major accomplishment this year has been? We now have a slide show of women’s contribution to local history. That little presentation has been known to pull in five or ten people at a time.”
“That’s a total misrepresentation of the organization’s accomplishments and you know it!” The perfect lady, Anthea’s hands remained folded in her lap.
Kim glanced at Rogan, hoping that the director would order an end to the bickering, but he was looking at his watch. “I don’t want to take any more of your time than necessary,” Kim started. “Mr. Dillon, I—”
“Garner.”
“Garner, I will want to meet with you later regarding the museum’s finances. Once I’ve familiarized myself with the physical plant, I’m going to be formulating several options. I work for a museum myself. I understand the economics of an operation financed by grants and contributions.”
“It’s tight. Too damn tight for electronic wizardry.”
Kim hadn’t expected so sharp a retort from Garner. “Like I said,” she repeated firmly, “we’re talking options. I’m not going to be of much assistance unless I understand what the museum can and can’t afford.”
“Garner’s right. It can’t afford much,” Rogan interjected. “We have an extensive collection. Acquisitions, restoration and storage has been our thrust. We are not interested in turning the place into a fortress. You have to understand our reputation.”
Kim did. She also understood something else. “It isn’t going to be much of a reputation if the museum is depleted. If antiques continue to be carried out the front door.”
“Maybe it’s the back door.” Garner leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. The gesture expanded his chest. When Garner glanced at Kim, she realized he’d made the gesture for that purpose. “Maybe they come through the skylight and pass the antiques to their accomplices waiting on the roof. Oops. I forgot. No skylight.”
Was Garner making fun of her? “This is not a joking matter. The losses now have a total value of thousands of dollars.”
“If you want a dollar breakdown, I’m working on that,” Garner pointed out. “At least I can give you a market value for the missing artifacts that have been reported to me. That’s one of our problems. A major problem. There is no strict accounting of everything the museum has acquired over the years.”
“You’re certainly good at that,” Anthea interjected. “Making lists. And quit flexing your muscles at Ms. Revis. I’d appreciate it if you played your games on your own time.”
Kim blushed, but it was obvious that she was the only one upset by Anthea’s comment. Garner flashed his perfect teeth. “Just because you can’t get to first base with me, Anthea— You’re young, Ms. Revis. Why did the board hire you?”
Anthea laughed a brittle laugh. “You took the words out of my mouth, Garner. Excuse me for saying this, Ms. Revis, but I remember you as a girl. It’s hard for me to realize that Margaret’s granddaughter is now a careerwoman. However did you get to be a security expert, if that’s the right term?”
“You’re a friend of my grandmother?” Kim asked.
“Not exactly. After all, Margaret is older than I.” Anthea ignored Garner’s snort and went on. “Is that why you’re here? Your grandmother recommended you?”
“No. In fact, my grandmother didn’t know I was coming here until after I’d been retained by the board. She wouldn’t have tried to pull strings for me. However, I doubt if I would have made time in my schedule to take this job if I hadn’t grown up here in Camp Oro.”
When Anthea continued to give Kim a skeptical look, she explained that she’d had a double major of business and history in college, supplementing an academic scholarship by working part-time for the Golden Gate Museum. She’d expanded that to full-time work upon graduation and two years ago had been promoted to one of several assistant director positions. “I’ve also worked on updating security systems for three area museums and recently acted as a consultant for a jewelry store,” she finished up.
“Sounds boring,” Garner proclaimed. “No wonder you’re not married, burying yourself in the archives that way.”
<
br /> Kim chose to ignore Garner’s comment. Instead she turned toward the still-silent security guard. “I need an understanding of what security measures are currently being used.”
“Not very damn many.” William Lynch cleared his throat, but when he continued, his voice still sounded seldom used. “One man can’t keep one hundred thousand square feet of building safe. There’re maybe five hundred people come through those doors every day during the summer. I can’t watch ’em all.”
Kim almost told William that it wasn’t her intention to put him on the defensive, but thought better of it. Someone was stealing from the museum. It might be random light-fingered visitors, although she doubted that. It might be an organized effort made easy by paying off the lone security guard. And William Lynch could be involved more deeply than that. “Who has the blueprints to the building?” she asked. “They would help me a great deal.”
“What’s going to help is putting an end to this insanity.” Anthea straightened the cuffs of the silk blouse under her blazer. “We’re not going to get the donations we need if patrons believe artifacts here aren’t safe.”
“How are they going to know?” Rogan asked. “It hasn’t made the paper.”
Before Kim could ask how they’d managed that, Anthea spoke. “It’s essential that our reputation remain unblemished. What you may not understand, Ms. Revis, is the unique situation here. We do more than act as a repository for artifacts. We actively solicit heirlooms.”
Kim knew donations were essential if a museum was to build a sizable collection, but going out and asking for donations had to be handled carefully, if at all. Still, the management practice of Comstock Museum wasn’t her concern. “Has anything been taken that was recently acquired?” she asked. “What I mean is, is there a possibility someone might come in and ask to see something from the family collection that’s disappeared?”
A quick exchange of glances answered Kim’s question. “And what’s going to happen when that person comes in?” she asked.
“We tell them the item they have entrusted to us is currently in storage,” Anthea answered.
