Diane Vallere - Style & Error 03 - The Brim Reaper

by Diane Vallere

  “If we’re going to suspect every person with access to Bubble Wrap, we might have to put Mailboxes Etc. under surveillance,” he said.

  I ignored him. “She threw a tablecloth over the boxes when she saw me staring at them. After I left I went across the street and chatted up the pizza man—”

  “Are you using my situation as a license to eat poorly?”

  I ignored him. “The owner said there’s been a lot of activity there in the past week. He also said she threw out a significant amount of Bubble Wrap, so much that the trash truck was filled. The driver had to activate the compactor and pop it to make room for the trash in the rest of the neighborhood.”

  “Funny.”

  “Not really. Somebody called the police because she thought it was gunfire. Do you think that could be what we heard last night at the museum? When we thought we heard gunfire?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do we know how Dirk Engle was killed?”

  “Dude’s head was wrapped in plastic. What more do you need to know?”

  “There was blood. Remember, that’s why you picked up the hat.”

  Eddie went pale under his tan. “Don’t remind me.”

  “I’m just thinking out loud here, but if somebody shot him, maybe nobody heard it because there was another explanation for the sound. Like Bubble Wrap popping.”

  “I didn’t hear anything that night. Did you?”

  “No, but we were upstairs. Maybe the acoustics aren’t so good up there?”

  “It’s a museum with marble floors and stairs. The only fabric in the whole building are the T-shirts they sell in the gift area. If there was any kind sound, we would have heard it.”

  “What about the light fixture? What if that was a distraction? We wouldn’t have heard anything else when that fell.”

  Eddie’s eyes moved to the left and the right as he thought about it. “That was a couple of hours before we found the body.”

  “But we don’t know how long the body was there. And the air conditioning was on too. Like someone wanted to keep his body cold and confuse the time of death.”

  “So you think someone killed him that afternoon?”

  “What about Thad? He came to the museum to see what had happened. What if he committed the murder, knowing he’d arranged for the light fixture to fall so he could join us and look like he wasn’t anywhere near the admissions office?”

  Eddie pushed what was left of his brown rice around on his plate. “Just yesterday Thad told me Dirk wanted out of his contract. Dirk said urgent personal business came up and he couldn’t fulfill his commitment.”

  “If that’s true, then why was he fighting with Christian? Why did he storm out and say the exhibit was cursed? Why did Christian tell him he was fired?”

  “Here’s another one. Why would Thad lie to me?” Eddie asked.

  I could think of one very good reason.

  13

  Before I had a chance to answer, the sofa rang. I mean, the phone under the delicately placed white afghan that hid the bald spot on the gray flannel sofa Eddie bought me at a visual sale at Tradava rang. I answered.

  “This is Thad Thomas. May I speak with Eddie Adams, please?”

  “He’s not available,” I said, using my best kill-them-with-kindness voice. “Can I give him a message?”

  “I’m sure he is available, he’s waiting for my call. I’m certain he would like to talk to me about museum matters. I’ll hold while you find him and tell him that I’m waiting to speak to him.”

  What a charming guy.

  I carried the phone back to the kitchen and held it out to Eddie. “It’s my new friend, Thad, from the museum. He wants to talk to you.” I pressed my hand over the bottom of the phone. “Don’t trust him. Remember what you just asked me.”

  Eddie took the phone. “Hey. Yeah. Where? Okay. Later.”

  “Whoa,” I said when he hung up. “What’s Thad doing with my number? And what’s he doing calling you here at my house? Why isn’t he calling your cell phone? And how does he even know you’re here?”

  “I told him I dropped my cell in water and it’s sitting in rice.”

  “Did you?”

  “No, but I needed an excuse for why I’m not answering my cell.”

  What did he want?”

  “If I still had the keys to the museum.”

  “And you said …?” I swear it was like pulling teeth.

  “I said yes. I couldn’t say no, could I?”

  There wasn’t time to address Eddie’s ignorance of the acceptable times to lie. I reached for my wine and took a sip.

  “He wants to meet tonight. Go over a few details and figure out a schedule for me to keep working. Is that cool with you?”

  I choked and set the glass back down. After I got the coughing under control, I said, “Five minutes ago. Here. We had a conversation. Were you not listening? Because I don’t think it’s a very good idea for you to meet up with Thad. Especially now that he knows you never dropped off the keys. Don’t you think it’s a little weird that he wants to get you back to the scene of the crime? Alone? At night?”

  “He’s trying to help with the exhibit.”

  “Are you sure? Thad has been nothing but nasty since the first time I met him. I think he’s hiding something.”

  “Or he’s the assistant director of the museum and he’s under a lot of pressure.”

  I knew how Eddie felt, wanting to believe in the honesty of one person connected to his world so it felt a little less scary, but I also knew Thad wasn’t above suspicion. Eddie was still trusting, still expecting the people around him to do what they said they would do. I knew deep down he had questions that would eventually bubble to the surface.

  I remembered back in high school, when I stood up for Eddie when he was involved in a cheating scandal. We hadn’t been close friends at the time, him having transferred in halfway through senior year. But I’d seen the whole thing from my seat in the back of the classroom. I’d watched a member of the football team copy Eddie’s test and then accuse Eddie of cheating to protect his scholarship.

  I didn’t know what was going down at the museum, but I couldn’t let Eddie take the blame for something he didn’t do.

  “I have an idea,” I said. I outlined my plan for the evening, a basic test of Thad’s loyalty to find out if he could be trusted. “Call him back,” I finished, “and set it up.”

  I handed the phone to Eddie, who stared at it like it was a newborn alien baby that had been dropped off on his doorstep. After several seconds of concentration, he hit redial. I heard the ringing phone through the handset.

  “A little privacy, please?” he said.

  I carried Logan into the kitchen and fed him another piece of chicken from my plate. He bit down on the chicken breast and jumped onto the floor, then ran to the corner by the sink and set it down. He sniffed it, and then carried it to the living room.

  As he disappeared around the corner, Eddie reappeared. “I don’t know why, but I did what you said.”

  “Did he take the bait?”

  He nodded. “He’s at the museum. I told him you wanted to come over and get the keys. He said he’d wait for you.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I left Eddie at the house while I drove to the museum. The sun hovered above the horizon. I parked in a space at the back of the lot and entered through the back door.

  Thad had asked Eddie to meet him in the upstairs gallery space, so I figured now was the perfect time to duck in the opposite direction, down the stairs to the catacombs—the offices for the museum director and staff—and see what I could find on Christian’s desk.

  The heavy wooden doors were shut but not locked; someone had turned the bolt on one door so it rested against its partner. I eased my way in and let my eyes adjust to the minimal light so as not to draw attention to myself.

  The last time I’d been in this office had been when Dr. Daum was the director of the museum. The desk now b
elonged to Christian, and it was decidedly neater and better organized than it had been under Dr. Daum’s tenure. The wood had recently been oiled and held the faint scent of lemon. A miniature copy of Rodin’s The Thinker, like the ones in the gift shop Rebecca had been straightening yesterday, served as a paperweight, holding down a pile of notes and memos.

  As I leaned closer to see what kind of things Christian kept on his desk, my hand slipped on a leather-bound journal and a few papers from inside fell to the floor. A vacation request and a responsibility sheet on an upcoming luncheon. I scanned the memo for a date and glanced at the computer monitor. A Word document titled “Interest in Hats” was open.

  It was a list of names, followed by a city and state: Edith Willoughby, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; Charlotte Mann, Princeton, New Jersey; Mildred Manners, Dover, Delaware; Paul Haines, Albany, New York. I scanned the screen. There were twenty names on the list. I didn’t know who these people were, but I grabbed the mouse, pointed and clicked, and moved to the printer while it chugged out a hard copy. I picked the paper off the tray. One of the heavy wooden doors started to swing toward me and I shoved the paper into my back pocket. I collapsed behind an audio-visual cart that held a TV and a DVD/VCR combo. A couple of remote controls and plastic videotape containers sat on top of the unit. Stifling a breath, I lay frozen on the floor while clunky, shuffling footsteps plodded toward the room. Christian entered.

  Peeking around the side of the cart, I watched Christian open a desk drawer and lean down. A lock of hair fell over his forehead like when Clark Kent becomes Superman, but I was beginning to suspect that he was not one of the good guys.

  He sat up and changed out of a pair of dusty brown construction boots and into wingtips. The boots were tossed along the back wall. A clump of dirt tinted dark red fell from the waffle-stomper tread on impact with the concrete floor. He stared at his computer screen. From my vantage point I couldn’t tell if the screensaver had returned or if the list was in front of him.

  He moved the mouse and turned toward the printer, stopping for just a fraction of a moment. He turned back to his desk and rifled through the papers under The Thinker, pressed a button on the phone, and wedged the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

  “Have you been to the office recently?” He paused. “Okay, no, nothing. Thank you.”

  He replaced the receiver and dialed a second number, this time punching in a series of numbers.

  “Everything is going according to plan. I assure you, you’ll be quite pleased.” Pause. “We knew there would be challenges along the way, but I’m dealing with them in a discreet manner, as always. No, I haven’t seen her at the museum for a few days, but I’ll keep an eye out. If she gets too close, I’ll tell the police what I know.”

  Pause.

  “Now, now. I don’t want you to worry. Soon it will all be over, and the hiding and the lies can stop. I assure you it will be worth it. I’m happy to do this for you. Of course. Until tomorrow then.”

  It wasn’t until he hung up that I realized I was a sitting duck. Who had Christian been talking to? And who was he talking about? If she gets too close, I’ll tell the police what I know. Who was she—Hedy? Vera?

  Me?

  If I hadn’t hidden to begin with, I could have stepped out from behind the racks and told Christian I’d been waiting for him, but not now. I could hardly pop up from behind a row of books and pretend my presence was normal.

  Christian showed no sign of leaving. He thumbed through the very stacks of paper I’d rummaged through seconds before, while I squatted on the concrete floor behind two rows of research material.

  I looked around the room, desperate for an escape plan. My eyes passed over his boots, a Louis Vuitton briefcase that sat next to his own tattered leather one, and a stack of dog-eared exhibit catalogs. The room was painfully silent. I needed a distraction and a way out. I was not going to become one of the challenges along the way that he would have to deal with. If he was the killer and thought wrapping someone in Bubble Wrap was discreet, what else he was capable of?

  Light from a streetlamp outside the museum shined through a small window above the shelving unit on the other side of the small-ish office. I crawled toward the door. I quietly tore a strip of paper from the sheet of collectors that I’d printed and balled it up. Right before I came out from behind the shelving I bowled it across the shiny concrete floor. It skidded to the wall behind his desk like a mouse. Christian looked up, startled. He went to investigate.

  That was my chance.

  I slipped through the double doors and into the hallway, making a beeline for the exit. Two-thirds of the way to the door, Thad stepped out of the shadows.

  “Thad. Hi. Where was I supposed to meet you?”

  He glared at me with his unnaturally bright green eyes.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help more with the exhibit,” I started.

  “What’s that?” he interrupted, staring at the list of collectors in my hand.

  “Nothing, really. Something I picked up for Eddie.” I needed to get out of there.

  He snatched the paper out of my hand. He unfolded it, glanced at it, and then glared at me with an expression of anger. “Where did you get this?”

  “Isn’t that Eddie’s to-do list? Did I grab the wrong thing?” I stood on my tiptoes and pretended to look at the paper. My voice sounded exactly as I hadn’t wanted.

  “This is not Eddie’s to-do list.” He folded the paper and ran his thumb and index finger over the crease.

  I threw my hands in the air. “Then I don’t know where I’m supposed to find it. Maybe the admissions office? But I can’t get in there. You have your own set of keys, don’t you? I mean, you can get in there when the rest of the museum is locked up, right?”

  “Samantha, if you really want to help Eddie, give him a message. Tell him to stay out of this before he gets in too deep.”

  14

  I left Thad in the doorway to the museum while I power-walked to my car. I wasn’t sure what his message meant, but there was no mistaking that it was a borderline threat. Thad knew more than he was letting on, and when I’d asked him about the admissions office, I sensed he was hiding something. I was going to find out what.

  Another thing nagged at me—Christian’s two phone calls. He’d only dialed a number for the second one. That led me to believe the first had been an internal call. So who had he called the second time?

  Eddie was asleep in my bed when I got home. I didn’t have the heart to wake him. I carried pajamas to the bathroom, washed my face and changed, and set up a makeshift bed on the sofa.

  It wasn’t the sunlight or the smell of coffee that woke me up Monday morning. It was the sound of my name being repeated over and over. Actually, it was my name coupled with, “Don’t you have to meet Nick in half an hour?” that finally did the trick.

  I opened one eye to a scary version of Eddie standing over me. Scary because he was in my terrycloth bathrobe. Second day back on the job, with Nick as my boss and show up late? Not a chance. Especially when we had a field trip scheduled.

  Today I went with the opposite of sexy secretary: menswear. When I returned to the kitchen it was in a brown blazer and matching pants, light blue shirt, brown and navy paisley silk vest, and brown leather ghillies. I added an oblong scarf knotted as a necktie and topped it all with a mountainous pile of pearls. I secured my hair in a ponytail and ran down the stairs.

  “How do I look?”

  “How did you do that in ten minutes?” Eddie asked with awe.

  “It’s a gift.”

  I grabbed my keys, hid half of my face behind a pair of Jackie O glasses, and left. Rush hour was thinning out, so it was in record time that I turned from the main road on to one of the many side streets that led to Milo Delaney’s address. Slowly I drove past a series of row homes, checking the numbers on the front of each house until I found the one that corresponded to the address of the hat showroom.

  Two kids boun
ced a ball on the street, and a couple of old men sat on a porch, watching them. They turned their attention to me when I got out of the car. I wasn’t sure, but they might have been laughing at my outfit. Head held high, I walked to the sidewalk and rested against a wrought-iron banister. Where was Nick? And why was Milo’s showroom in the middle of one of Ribbon’s inner-city streets?

  A thin man in a close-fitting T-shirt and faded ratty jeans approached. He held a cup of coffee in one hand and a leash attached to a very big dog in the other. I took a step backward to give him plenty of clearance. He nodded at me and approached the front door of the row home we were intending to visit. He punched a code into the keypad outside the door and it buzzed. The door closed behind him. I looked around for Nick. Finally I saw him walking away from his white pickup truck parked farther down the street.

  “You should have gone up without me. I didn’t realize I was going to have to park so far away.”

  “I’m not sure this is the right address. I saw someone go inside, and he didn’t look like a hat designer.”

  Just then the door opened, and the man with the large dog poked his head outside. “Nick Taylor?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  The man jogged halfway down the stairs and extended a hand. “I’m Milo. C’mon up.” He turned away from us and scaled an intimidating flight of stairs immediately inside the front door.

  Nick scaled the stairs and caught the closing door before it snapped into place. He gestured for me to follow. I climbed as quickly as I could, finding it unexpectedly difficult as I was only partially awake and wearing shoes not designed for stair-scaling.

  By the time we reached the room, only one of us looked professional, but I was beyond caring. The big dog lay on a rug of braided rope next to an antique wooden desk.

  “Welcome to my temporary showroom,” Milo said. “Sorry about the informality. I’m scrambling a little since my business manager left me.”

  “Can I use your restroom?” I asked, the need to freshen up trumping the need to introduce myself.