Lochlan Museum: The Case of the Collectible Killer

by Melissa R. L. Simonin

  “Really?” Claire wondered, glancing around her. “This is riches, to me. But I guess I see what you mean.”

  “It is a sweet little place,” Marlena said generously, then regret filled her eyes. “If only I came here before this.”

  Claire felt a wave of sympathy in response to the longing in her voice.

  “It’s too bad your mother wouldn’t let you see them. That must have been so hard, living right here in town…”

  “We moved to Ashland,” Marlena corrected her. “I was told a lot of things that I now know weren’t true. What I wouldn’t do, to go back, and…”

  Marlena was lost in thought, her eyes fixed on memories seldom visited. She shook her head slightly.

  “I think of what our grandparents lost, and I feel such guilt.”

  “Why?” Claire asked softly.

  “They lost their only child. Then… through no fault of their own, their two granddaughters were withheld. When they tried to contact me later on… I feel sick, remembering how cold I was toward them. After Rick and I married, and moved here, we went to the same church. Do you realize that? And I never acknowledged them. Not once.”

  Marlena brushed away the tears that welled. Claire handed her a tissue from the box on the end table, then hugged her. Marlena sniffed and choked back the sobs that threatened.

  “I think of these two—wonderful people, and—it’s so tragic.”

  Claire gave that some thought before responding.

  “It is. They didn’t have the life they wanted, worked for, expected, or deserved. There’s a lot they were deprived of.”

  “It’s not fair,” Marlena sniffed. “I could’ve changed that. At least a little. And now it’s too late for them.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Claire frowned. “Marlena, it isn’t. It’s not over, it’s just begun. They’re lacking for nothing, and never will be again. Do you think they’re looking back right now, lamenting what they didn’t have during the brief period before the rest of their lives began?”

  Marlena shook her head slowly, as she brushed away more tears.

  “No, I suppose not. I’m glad of that. But I hurt and disappointed them. I don’t know what was wrong with me, it’s as though I had no capacity to feel.”

  “Maybe you turned that off, probably to protect yourself. You lost your father, after all. Your mother wasn’t honest about a lot of things. There was no one to tell you the truth. You were a little kid, and you need to extend yourself some grace.”

  “I suppose,” Marlena said. She didn’t sound nearly convinced enough to suit Claire.

  “You have regrets. I’m not trying to downplay that, or minimize how you feel. Regret hurts, but it’s also what woke you up, and prompted change. Don’t forget that you see clearly now, and you’re different because of it. That’s something to rejoice in.”

  “I’m sure everyone around me will, once they get over the shock,” Marlena said ruefully.

  “Regret serves a purpose, but don’t get mired in it,” Claire warned her. “Otherwise, the result will be depression and despair. Not renewal.”

  “I suppose you’ll be here to straighten me out if that happens,” Marlena replied, with a sigh.

  “Absolutely,” Claire promptly replied.

  Marlena smiled a little, then turned back to the album on her lap.

  “Thank you for sharing these with me.”

  “Our grandmother said to… if you ever wanted to see them.”

  “What?” Marlena asked in surprise.

  “She left a letter with Mrs. Frederick. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before—maybe because I fell down the stairs last night. But inside my letter, was one for you.”

  Marlena’s eyes widened.

  “What does it say?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  “I may be your little sister, Marlena, but I’m hardly—no, that’s not true. I’m very nosy. But not enough to read a letter written to someone else! Open the bible. It’s inside the cover.”

  Marlena pressed her hands to her pale cheeks, and stared at the bible that lay on the end table as if she was afraid.

  “You’ll probably cry,” Claire said frankly. “I did, when I read mine. But I felt so much better later.”

  “How much later?” Marlena asked wryly.

  “Sooner, rather than,” Claire replied.

  “I’m reading it right here then,” Marlena warned, brushing away tears. “If I melt down, I’m your fault.”

  “Understood,” Claire replied.

  Alec parked his truck in front of the house. He watched as a white car pulled up to the curb behind him.

  He opened the door of his vehicle and climbed out. The car’s two dark-suited occupants joined him.

  “Right this way,” Alec said, and they followed him up the walk to Claire’s house. He unlocked the front door and ushered the men into the downstairs sitting room. “Have a seat. I’ll be a minute.”

  Alec climbed the stairs, pausing outside Claire’s bedroom to announce himself with a knock on the doorframe.

  “Come in,” she called. “If you’re Alec. If not, then proceed at your own risk.”

  “It’s me,” he smiled, as he passed through the bedroom and closet, ducking to avoid smacking his head on the doorframe, and joined her and Marlena.

  Marlena, who was briskly blotting tears with a handful of tissues. Several folded pages lay open on her lap, and Alec understood.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but they’re here.”

  “Good,” Claire said with feeling. “Marlena… I’ve got to go talk to some people. It might not take me long.”

  “No, it’s fine,” Marlena sniffed, quickly gathering her things. “I should go. Really, I’m fine. And—thank you.”

  Marlena hugged Claire tightly.

  “You’re welcome,” Claire smiled. “Come over again tomorrow, if you want. Until my ankle improves, I’m stuck.”

  “I’ll do that,” Marlena nodded. “I’ll take the day shift, Alec, if you’ll take evening.”

  “I will,” he replied.

  Marlena stood, and Alec took her place beside Claire. She put her arm across his shoulders, he put his arm around her waist, and pulled her to her feet. Or, foot. Her sprained ankle couldn’t afford to bear any weight.

  It wasn’t the most efficient mode of travel, and stooping to get under the doorframe was an added complication. Being carried to the stairs wasn’t so bad. There were, however, a lot of things in life that were easier than descending them while acting as a human crutch, or in being assisted by one. Hopping down on one foot all by herself, wouldn’t be one of them.

  They reached the entryway, and Marlena let herself out the backdoor. Alec leaned down, Claire wrapped her arms around his neck, and he picked her up.

  As he carried her through the arched doorway to the downstairs sitting room, she looked at the agents curiously. They appeared concerned and sympathetic at the sight of her bruises, bandaged ankle, and method of conveyance. She decided they might be nice, after all. It probably wasn’t their fault it took forever to get the message.

  “Claire, this is Agent Rogers and Agent Slade,” Alec introduced them.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” she said.

  As they returned her greeting, Alec set her on the couch. He lay a throw pillow on the coffee table, and she propped her foot there.

  “Did you tell them everything?” Claire asked Alec.

  “No. So… start from the beginning?” Alec asked, looking to the agents.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Agent Rogers said. He and Agent Slade prepared to take notes.

  “I recently inherited this house from my grandmother,” Claire began. “So, I moved here, after being offered a job as sorter, at Lochlan Museum. It’s my responsibility to examine the merchandise donated to the museum, and to determine whether it’s worthy of exhibiting, placing in an antique store to fund the museum, or for donation to a non-profit second-hand store.

  “The night before I
arrived in Juniper Creek, the front door of Juniper Creek Thrift was kicked in, and the merchandise broken to pieces. When I read about it on the local newsfeed, I couldn’t help wondering why. When I met Alec later—we’re neighbors—we talked about it, and he mentioned he’s friends with the thrift store manager. Alec saw the damage firsthand, and knew the register wasn’t touched. That made me wonder even more.

  “My first day of work, I learned that Juniper Creek Thrift is the non-profit that receives the museum’s donation items. The shelves were packed, and I figured the thrift store needed the items as badly as we needed to get rid of them, so I tried calling the manager. I couldn’t get through, so I asked Alec for help. He went with me to Juniper Creek Thrift, and managed an introduction. In talking to the manager, we learned that not everything was destroyed, only certain categories of items. The store itself, other than the door being kicked in, wasn’t vandalized, either.”

  She looked to Alec, so he took over.

  “Claire noticed the computer repair shop across the street, and figured they had a security camera. She was right. The owner copied the recording for us. The video quality isn’t the best, but we could tell it was a really big guy that kicked in the door. Claire noticed the light from his flashlight moved methodically through the shop, rather than erratically. He was there for five and a half hours. Claire surmised that this vandal, who we now know to be a man named Bill Heath, was searching for something hidden inside either a collectible, small electronic device, or some type of office equipment,” Alec said, and turned the story back over to her.

  “Now we wondered what the guy was looking for. Who hid it, whatever it was? Bill Heath was searching for it, but he didn’t know exactly what it was hidden inside. That’s what we thought, anyway. He actually did, but we’ll get to that later.

  “Four non-profit, second-hand stores in Ashland, were broken into, and underwent the same destruction as Juniper Creek Thrift, on the same night. It couldn’t possibly be coincidence, which meant the item being searched for was extremely valuable to someone. Someone who didn’t have a right to it, or they wouldn’t be searching in secret.

  “The log of individuals who donated to Juniper Creek Thrift during the two weeks before the breakin, was taken by Bill Heath. A series of simultaneous cat burglaries occurred in Ashland shortly after. Everyone whose home was burgled, also made a purchase at Juniper Creek Thrift during the previous two weeks. They reported collectibles, small electronics, and office equipment missing. There was otherwise no sign of a breakin, and home security systems were bypassed. Those who were searching, were professionals.”

  Claire paused for breath, so Alec stepped in.

  “We were even more curious about who, what, and why. Claire was convinced the item in question was donated to the museum rather than the thrift store, and that it was still there, since the searchers were continuing to search. We intended to speak with everyone who donated to the museum in the previous two weeks, but, Claire then discovered an anonymous donation was left outside the sorting room door during that timeframe. And so, we searched the sorting room for two banker’s boxes. We found them,” he said, and removed the couch throw that disguised the boxes as an ottoman. “Inside, we discovered collectibles, office equipment, and a clock radio. In addition, there was a lot of change, a set of keys, a dry-cleaning ticket, and a coffee shop reward card, one punch away from being filled. We decided whoever donated the items, was upset with whoever they belonged to.

  “We searched the contents of the boxes, but didn’t turn up anything hidden. We did find the name Variant Research Laboratories written on the bottom of both boxes. We discovered the lab was located just outside of Ashland. The claim ticket was for an Ashland dry-cleaning place. We believed we were on to something, so we picked up the dry-cleaning, and that gave us the name Allen Parker. We drove to Variant Research, and discovered he was fired three weeks before.”

  “Allen Parker was using his office at Variant to store the merchandise he sold on eBay,” Claire continued. “He boxed it as it sold, and UPS picked it up along with Variant’s own shipments. We were certain he shipped out valuable research, along with it. We decided he was fired before his supervisor realized what he was doing. Otherwise, he wouldn’t order Allen’s things to be thrown out. We learned that the person told to toss it, felt uncomfortable doing that, and so it was donated instead.

  “Saturday night, while I was on the way to pick up dinner, I saw Bill Heath attempting to break into the museum’s sorting room. I tried to catch him, but he had a gun, and got away. I went home, and decided to search for Allen Parker’s eBay userid, by doing searches on the merchandise in the box. It stood to reason he might have some of those things listed. He did. His userid is allenby7451125. Since Alec and I searched all of the items in the boxes and discovered nothing hidden, I suspected the listings with ampersands and asterisks on each side of the title, were the ones that included stolen research material.

  “Museum employees are free to take items in the donate category. The day I started work, I discovered a clock on one of the donation shelves, and brought it home. When I saw it in a completed buy-it-now auction, with ampersands and asterisks surrounding the title, I felt sure that the clock held what everyone was searching for.

  “So I searched it. Inside, stuck out of sight and held in place with putty, was a vial. The label was hidden under a second label, so we don’t know what it might be. It must be important though, to have so many people hunting for it.

  “Earlier that day, Alec and I did research on Allen Parker and Variant. We discovered how damaging corporate espionage is, and that the FBI are the ones who handle it. So I called and left a message.”

  “Claire didn’t contact Variant, and I agreed with that decision,” Alec interjected. “It was better for her to contact the FBI directly, than to have Variant do it, and risk being accused of having something to do with the vial’s theft.”

  Claire nodded.

  “We knew you would listen to the facts, and how we thought it through and solved the mystery, instead of letting emotion cloud your judgment. We didn’t know who we could trust, either, and didn’t want to hand this to someone who would turn around and sell it, like Allen Parker intended to do.”

  “That’s exactly why I insisted on meeting you at the police station, and that your identity be confirmed by Officer Andrews,” Alec told the agents.

  “Monday, I went outside to retrieve what I thought was a donation,” Claire continued. “It wasn’t, it was a trick to get me outside, so Bill Heath would have a chance to steal my security-enabled ID.”

  “He caused the bruises on her throat,” Alec made sure to point out.

  “He had a gun too, but my coworker is a martial artist and kicked it out of his hand,” Claire added. “Then Alec came, and finished the guy off.”

  “Bill Heath was taken into police custody, and it’s been confirmed that he’s responsible for the destruction at Juniper Creek Thrift,” Alec said. “The museum had no idea why he wanted in so badly, but they were concerned a copycat might take over where he left off. They beefed up security, and we thought that would be the end of it. We never dreamed someone would break into Claire’s house.”

  “No one has any idea Alec and I know about the vial, or Allen Parker, or any of the rest of it,” Claire pointed out. “The intruder must have been after my ID, like Bill Heath was. The intruder came upstairs, and I heard my cat make a horrible sound, like he was in pain.”

  “Herschel probably scared the guy,” Alec interjected.

  Everyone looked at Herschel, who sat in front of the fireplace, his tail tightly curled around his paws. He stared straight ahead, seemingly at nothing. As they watched, his inscrutable yellow-green eyes slowly turned in the direction of the two strangers.

  Agent Rogers stared back in fascination. Agent Slade looked a little disturbed.

  “I thought the guy hurt Herschel, so I ran out of the closet and jumped on him. But he flung me off, and
got away. I went after him and fell down the stairs. That’s how I sprained my ankle. And got all these,” Claire said, giving her bruises a glance.

  “The police came,” Alec added. “The deadbolt on the backdoor had been tampered with. There were no fingerprints, and Claire didn’t get a look at his face.”

  “He had on a ski-mask,” she elaborated. “The only light was the moonlight shining through the windows, so I probably wouldn’t know what he looked like, even if he didn’t. He wasn’t huge like Bill Heath. He was shorter, and his ankles were thick. That’s all I really know for sure, although Alec and I wonder if it was Allen Parker. After that happened, Alec called and left the FBI another message. And now, here we are, and here’s the vial.”

  Claire reached behind one of the throw pillows, and removed the small plastic storage container. She carefully peeled off the lid to reveal the putty encased vial, then handed container, vial, and lid, to Agent Rogers. He and Agent Slade looked it over, then replaced the lid.

  “You can keep the container,” Claire volunteered.

  “We haven’t touched it,” Alec added. “The putty, or the vial.”

  Agent Slade nodded, then made another note.

  “You still have the clock?” he asked.

  Claire made a face, then pointed to the ceramic clock on the mantle.

  “That’s it,” she said. It matched her décor so well, too. But, of course they wanted it.

  Keeping a wary eye on Herschel, Agent Slade stood and approached the mantle. He removed gloves from his pocket and put them on.

  “The clock has been handled many times,” Alec mentioned.

  “And cleaned,” Claire added. “But… not the inside. You might find fingerprints there. Somehow.”

  Now she regretted pointing that out! But like Alec assured her earlier, they could find another clock that matched her décor.