Past Malice

by Dana Cameron

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if I could do that,” I said slowly. I looked at him. “It’s a wild idea, though. I’ll think about it.”

  He handed me a card. “Well, if you ever do, let me know. I’ll tell you where to get started on your certification. No pressure.”

  “Thanks. That’s really…I mean, it’s always nice to be asked, you know?”

  Feldman laughed. “Yeah, I suppose it is. Well, I’d better get back to it. Take it easy and thanks for the tour.”

  “Sure, any time.”

  About 10 A.M., the breeze dropped off and the heat became blistering. I tried not to watch as Detective Bader approached the site; perhaps he didn’t want to speak with me at all. Still, it was with a quiet sense of excitement that I realized that he was gesturing for me to meet him on the lawn below the house. He mopped his head with a handkerchief; a big guy like him would definitely be feeling the warmth of the day. As he walked from the crime scene, he tucked the hankie back neatly into his blazer pocket.

  I put my notes down and tapped Meg on the shoulder, letting her know that I would be away for a few minutes. It wasn’t too surprising that Detective Bader led me over to one of the trees that was next to the street side fence, well away from the crew, well away from the crowds, well away from the house.

  “I hate to take you away from your work, but I’ve got that paper to show you. The one I mentioned the other day?”

  “I’d be happy to help, if I can.”

  He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. It was a photocopy, but one that had been the result of putting the original the wrong way around on the glass; the paper only showed half of the original, cut off midway down the page. He handed it to me, saying, when I hesitated, “Go ahead. It’s a copy I made of the original photocopy, if you know what I mean. You can touch it.”

  I took the paper and looked at it. It seemed to me that the original photocopy had been crumpled. The original document it showed was old, maybe as old as the house, and darkened with age. The cursive handwriting seemed to swim before my eyes for a moment; some of the lettering had faded over the years, there were one or two blots, and there was a peculiarity about the way the tails of the letters were formed with an abrupt jerk upward that took a while to get the hang of. When I focused on the first word, however, I could make it out well enough to realize that I was reading a sentence that began in the middle, part of a letter. I read aloud:

  “—though it can scarce matter now about the Boy’s parentage. What is important is that you have promised to give him your protection, raise him as your own, and that, along with his own deeds, will determine the kind of Man Nicholas is to become. This is the last favor I shall ever ask of you, Mr. Matthew Chandler. It is a great one, but I realize that you would undertake it for his sake, as well for the sake of the memory of his Father and me. It is better this way; if he had grown older here with me, he would have grown into the City’s vices and perhaps mine too. Perhaps this way, it is not too late. Your grateful Servant Sarah Holloway.”

  There was no date. I didn’t recognize the name or the handwriting from any of the documents I’d been studying, so I didn’t know why Detective Bader was giving it to me.

  “It looks eighteenth century,” I told him. “I can’t tell too much more than that.”

  “But it looks like…something that was real?”

  “Yes. It looks genuine, but I couldn’t say better unless I looked at the original. Where did you get this?” I said.

  “From the wastebasket in Aden Fiske’s home office. Did you know it had been broken into the night of his murder?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Broken in is probably the wrong word. There were no signs of a forced entry. Whoever killed Aden used his keys. Not the sort of thing you are careless with, particularly when you have as much to guard as he did.”

  “The historic site and his house,” I suggested.

  “More than that. Aden Fiske was a blackmailer.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Ted had said something like it at the Little Green Bar, but I hadn’t considered it seriously.

  “If I were, it would reduce the number of suspects I’m suddenly considering.”

  “How do you know he was blackmailing people?” I could tell that I was pushing the limits of his tolerance for telling a civilian anything to do with an ongoing investigation, and I held my breath until he reluctantly answered.

  “We got to his house and found that a fire had been set in his home office. A pile of files, letters, photographs, a lot of things were smoldering in the fireplace. Someone had taken a hatchet to the filing cabinets and managed to get one of them opened. Most of the files from that one were burnt in the fireplace—”

  “Does that mean you can narrow down the suspects in some way—by alphabetical order or something like that?”

  “I wish. His filing system wasn’t that well organized. I got the impression from the way things were organized that there is a larger collection, hidden away somewhere. What we found were mostly photocopies like this one. Apparently the murderer didn’t think to look in the wastebasket.”

  “You said ‘a larger collection’?”

  He nodded and looked out toward the water.

  “A safety deposit box?”

  “There’s no way to tell at this stage. But Aden wouldn’t have been stupid enough to keep the originals at home. He didn’t even have an alarm system.”

  “Maybe he believed that whoever might want to get at him knew that his files were protection enough. Maybe they were worried that he might have some kind of ‘dead-man’s switch,’ in case he died. You know, a lawyer who would mail a letter to the paper on the news of his death, or something like that.”

  “You have a very devious mind, Dr. Fielding.” He looked down the way we’d come, toward the site at the side of the house. “We’ve considered all that. But it didn’t do him any good in the end. It does make me think about the trouble you had with Aden’s outboard.”

  I chewed that over, thinking about Bray Chandler’s claims to be descended from Margaret and Matthew Chandler, now utterly refuted by this letter. A letter that Aden had in his possession and perhaps even held over Bray’s head.

  I told Bader about Bray Chandler’s claims. His face grew more and more stern, and I realized that Bray wasn’t the only one whose secret I also now knew. Fee and Grace, Perry’s history of cheating at school, Ted’s prying and spying. Even the Voellers’ competition with Aden seemed all too sinister now.

  “What will you do with all the evidence you’ve found? I mean, about other people’s blackmail-able activities?” I asked.

  “It depends. A lot of the stuff we found was just…personal. Some of it wasn’t, but we’ll have to see.”

  I remembered from childhood that “we’ll see” was an all-purpose conversation ender. I couldn’t afford to let it end now. And I’d promised Brian I wouldn’t.

  “What about the vandalism? Perry’s hit and run? Any ideas about where they might all fit in?”

  “Hmmm, well. Perry Taylor’s hit and run isn’t part of this story.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Trust me. We’re still looking into the vandalism though.”

  Once again, his reluctance to speak about police matters was frustrating, but I couldn’t allow it to stop me now. “Detective Bader. I’m not sure how to say this, but…there were two bodies found here at the house. They were found, both of them, right next to where I’ve been working. Is there any chance that this might have more to do with me or my work than—?”

  “So far, this all looks like it’s focused on the Historical Society and Aden Fiske,” he said briskly. “I would just suggest you take the usual precautions.”

  We were walking along the fence that ran down the street side of the house. I noticed that Ted had followed us out onto the lawn, pausing here and there at some of the garden beds, as if to pick out weeds or deadhead past blooms. He was straining to hear
us. If Detective Bader noticed, he gave no indication. Eventually Ted gave up and returned to the house, his hands stained red from the geranium blossoms.

  When we reached the edge of the property at the water, we turned and walked back up the slope until Detective Bader halted at the turnoff for the crime scene. A loud “woof” came from across the street and I realized that a pair of canine eyes were following us closely.

  “Piss off, Matisse,” I called. I turned back to Detective Bader, who looked amused. “If you let me see the original, maybe I could say something more about it.”

  “I’ll let you know. Thanks for your help; I don’t want to keep you any longer.”

  I couldn’t just leave it at that. “Did you ever find out about your U.S.–Mexican War troops?”

  “Yes, I did.” He hesitated. “You know, I really appreciate it when someone tells me straight out that they don’t know something. That’s the mark of a professional.” And with that, he walked away.

  Okay, it might not have been what I was looking for, but maybe it told me why he’d brought the Chandler paper to my attention, rather than to the museum or someone else’s.

  Aden a blackmailer? Whew, that made a lot of sense. A lot of ugly sense. I couldn’t think of too many things worse than holding someone hostage with their own indiscretions. It certainly went a long way to help me understand the state of relations between the town and the Historical Society. The only problem was, it also widened the field of suspects, as Detective Bader said, not only in terms of Aden’s murder—and Justin’s too, for that matter—but the strikes against the Historical Society as well. It might be that all of the vandalism and other problems were the result of several different perpetrators, not just one. It did feel, though, based on the people and where I’d found them, that it had to do with the Chandler House. And maybe even the people associated with it.

  It was with some relief that I returned to my work. Although the house was still open for visitors, most of the grounds outside the immediate perimeter of the house were not, as Detective Bader and the lab crew were still working out by the northern part of the site. That did not stop, however, many people from gathering on the street side of the fence to ask us questions, and we were pretty busy for most of the morning. A little too busy, in fact, because I heard a soft curse from Joe around ten thirty.

  I gently extracted myself from a gentleman who was telling me about his family history (“Since you’re sort of an antiquarian, you might find this interesting,” was how he had started, too long before), and went over to see what the problem was. It turned out to be a simple matter of a mislabeled feature number that involved a lot of erasing, renumbering, and cross-checking the drawings he’d made yesterday, but it seemed to hit him hard. His dark hair was soaked with sweat so that it stood up. Between that and his dark eyebrows against his pale skin, he looked rather like an anxious Muppet.

  “It’s not like I’ve never done this before,” he said.

  “You know, you could just be tired. Are you thinking about what’s been going on around here lately?” I indicated the northern part of the site, where it was still possible to detect the movement of the crime scene squad over there. “That could shake anyone’s nerves,” I pointed out. “Completely natural.”

  He shrugged, then shook his head. “No, not really. It’s horrible, but…don’t take this the wrong way, will you?” He lowered his voice even further. “It’s kind of interesting, too, you know what I mean? I mean, to see it from a distance. With Justin, it was hard to take. I knew him a little and it was really creepy. The violence, everything. I didn’t feel that way then. But with Aden, I know it is terrible, even if I don’t know him, but I can’t help feeling a little curious about it all.” He put his head in his hands. “Oh, God, I sound like a shithead, don’t I?”

  I stared at the side of the house. “No, I understand what you mean. I can see how it would be interesting, out of the ordinary for you. I don’t think you have to feel ashamed of that. But you seem to be taking a few clerical errors too hard today. Are you sure you’re not just upset about the murders?”

  He looked up, but his shoulders slumped. “No, it’s not that. And it’s not just the paperwork I’m screwing up. I mean, yesterday? I didn’t catch the edge of that planting hole until I was centimeters down into it.”

  “It was irregular and mottled, that’s what makes it hard to see. I mean, not that you shouldn’t try hard, but it’s not the end of the earth, if you’ll excuse the pun.”

  He wasn’t convinced, though. “I just can’t seem to get into it today. This week. I keep making mistakes.”

  I nodded. “But you keep catching them and correcting them, which is a good start, a good sign. Everyone has an off moment or two. Just take it slower, and you’ll find your groove again.”

  “This morning you told everyone to pick up the pace,” he muttered.

  “Right. Well, you know what I mean. Go quicker, but slowly and carefully.”

  That at least brought a grin from him. “Okay.”

  Although I knew what Joe meant, I was one hundred and eighty degrees away from where he was, right on top of my game today. Because we were all forced by the investigation to work on our original set of units, I was caught up on the eternal paperwork, and had begun to think of where we might put an extra unit on this side if we had the time, which wasn’t really likely, but it was nice to be able to think ahead.

  “That’s lunch, folks,” I announced a while later. “Clean it up and lock it down. Pick a spot in the shade and I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Lunch flew by, and we were soon back hard at it. Even though Joe seemed a little disheartened by missing the transition and by the frustration of trying to get the surfaces cleaned, everyone else had had a pretty good day. In fact, I felt quite confident now that the wing on the other side of the house was original and not a later addition: Our garden wall was the anomaly. There was some reason for them not having built this wing again, and I knew I would eventually find out why.

  “Time to wrap it up, guys,” I announced, after I realized that the sun was moving a lot faster than I’d given it credit for. “Good day, everyone.”

  Joe gave me a defeated look, his face sunburned and lined with unusual concentration and fatigue, as he went around and collected the tools that were lying about. “You’ll get it back tomorrow, don’t worry about it,” I said to him.

  Joe nodded, accepting my statement, but still not believing me. He looked past me and suddenly his face changed from hangdog to puzzlement and then into a big grin. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m helping close up,” said a familiar male voice. “Isn’t that what it’s called?”

  I looked over my shoulder and was surprised to see Brian putting half a brick onto a corner of the tarp that he and Meg were handling.

  “I figure the extra hands don’t hurt at the end of the day,” he said, looking up at me.

  “And the extra eyes, either?” I said in a low voice so only he could hear.

  He shrugged. “I’m not so much keeping an eye on you as seeing for myself what is going on here. Call it reassuring myself that there’s nothing going on I don’t know about.”

  “Okay, I can live with that,” I announced, then frowned. “Just pull that corner a little tighter, would you? It’s crooked.”

  He smiled. “Aye aye.” He turned and said to someone behind him. “Pull that corner tighter, would you Kam?”

  “I believe that is what is known as passing the buck,” Kam announced. He was dressed casually—casually for him, at any rate—in a crisp white shirt and jeans that were pressed. I saw Dian frankly checking him out, intrigued by his refined English accent as much as by his form.

  “Hey you!” I gave him a hug. “It’s been weeks! How was the honeymoon?”

  “Oh, it was lovely, thank you very much. And it was nice to get away from work.”

  “Kam! I can’t believe you!”

  He looked pained. “Hon
estly, Emma. What am I supposed to tell you? You’d be no happier if I’d merely said that I thought that the hotel was worth every penny, would you? And if you’re fishing for the lurid details, you’ll not have them from me. My wife, however, is in the car, and you may have some luck there.” A funny look crossed his face, a kind of worried indecision I’d never seen him before.

  I ran out to the parking lot, to see my oldest friend Marty sitting in Kam’s Jaguar XJR. Something was up, though, because I know how much Marty likes surprises and couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t come out to see me. She was sitting in the car, the door opened and her feet on the ground outside the car, her head low. I picked up my pace when I got a glimpse of her face; she wasn’t made up. Something was wrong.

  As I got closer, I saw she wasn’t dressed up, not even in designer casual, which was another shock to me. What she was wearing looked like the sort of thing that Kam might have worn to the gym, a T-shirt that looked as though it might have been ironed—a thought that nearly made me giggle—and a pair of sweat pants that were rolled up almost a foot to reveal worn-out sneakers. She looked up and I realized that Marty’s face was drawn and her eyes were red.

  I ran to her side. “Oh my God, Marty! What’s wrong? Tell me.”

  “Oh, Emma. I’m so pregnant!”

  “Marty, oh, sugar! It’s all right.” I drew her into a gentle hug because, tiny as she was, I had never seen her look so fragile. I pulled back to look at her. “It is all right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s all right, it’s fine. We’re very happy.” And then she started to cry as if her heart was breaking.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “We were going to tell you, I wanted to tell you in person. But I just keep throwing up. Oh, God, I’ve been so sick. I’ve never been this sick. I feel like I’ve been throwing up things I ate twenty years ago.”

  “But everything’s all right, isn’t it? I mean, what’s the doctor said?”

  “She said I’m fine, if you can believe that. She says it might be better in another six weeks or so, but….” Sheshrugged tiredly.