by Terri Thayer
I admired her naiveté. She thought the police would be working hard to discover who’d stolen her prized possessions. I wasn’t going to burst her bubble.
Nan paged through the songbook, looking for a new piece to play. I felt like an intruder, so I said my goodbyes and continued on my way.
Right at eleven, my class gathered on the wide porch of the Administration building. I could hear the piano. Nan had started another mournful tune.
Cinnamon was holding a bundle wrapped in black plastic. “Everyone got their shots?” she shouted, to be heard over the ocean and Nan.
We roared back our enthusiastic replies.
“Good. Now put your cameras away.”
We groaned. We’d been pumped.
“We’re going to capture an image another way,” Cinnamon said.
She handed out the small packages. “Don’t open it yet,” she warned.
When she was finished, she held up hers. “Remember the blueprint I showed you yesterday? Now it’s your turn. In this package is a piece of the specially treated fabric.”
I felt a frisson of anticipation sweep the group. I was excited, too. This class was challenging me in ways I hadn’t imagined. I was full of the genius of Julia Morgan and feeling my own creative urges awaken.
“You looked at the macro world and the micro world, now I want you to focus on one object,” Cinnamon said. “An interesting shape, a profile. Whatever. Just think beyond the gingko leaf or the fern or the sand dollar.”
One woman said, “Darn!”
“You were headed straight for the tide pool, am I right?” Cinnamon said. The woman nodded ruefully.
“Think different.”
The woman scowled as though she was thinking hard, cracking up the rest of us.
A picture was coming into my mind, one of the artifacts I’d seen in one of these buildings. A skeleton key, beautifully shaped.
I tried to remember where I’d seen it, while listening to the directions from Cinnamon.
“I’ve given you a piece of the fabric taped to cardboard. Write your name on the scotch tape I’ve put on your piece. Don’t expose it to the light until you’ve got your image in place. Take your object, lay it on the specially treated fabric and expose it for at least ten minutes. You won’t be able to see much. You’ve got to have faith.”
I gathered my bundle to my chest.
Cinnamon clapped her hands. “We’ll rinse them later. You’ve got forty-five minutes until lunch. I can’t wait to see what you come up with. Don’t disappoint me.”
___
The plaque on the side of the building read “Pirates’ Den.” It explained that the men who had been brought to the all-girl YWCA camp to teach the women how to drive had been quartered here.
My car keys were trapped in there. There was something fitting about that. But now I was in search of a different key. I thought I knew where I’d seen the key. In Mercedes’ office.
The building sat on a slope. On the first floor were the living room and several sleeping rooms and the public bathrooms. Down a level were several more sleeping rooms. One room sat by itself, on the lower level, isolated from the other dorm rooms by the hill.
Neither Mercedes or her assistant was in sight now.
What I wanted was in the living room. On the wall by the bathroom was a closet door, painted the same beige color as the walls. Slotted in the keyhole was an old-fashioned brass key, now dark with age and human handling. Right where I remembered it. I congratulated myself.
I pulled the key out and held it up. It was at least four inches long, rounded at the filigreed bottom. The notches were cut with precision, forming interesting nooks and crannies. It was perfect for this project.
I opened the blueprint fabric, trying to remember what Cinnamon had said about the sun exposure. I pulled out the cardboard, dropping the black plastic bag that it’d been in. I laid the key on the green fabric, and opened the curtain to let in the light.
I bent down to pick up the bag that had drifted to the ground.
A Polaroid print lay on the floor under the desk where Mercedes had been sitting at the other day. I picked it up, bringing it close to the window so I could see it.
It was a picture of the Rose Box, taken in this room. I could see the curtains in the background. The box had been sitting on the table in front of the window and lay on top of a copy of The Pacific Grove Bulletin, positioned so that the date was showing. The newspaper was today’s edition.
It looked like a ransom note.
That made no sense. According to Nan, it was virtually worthless now because it was incomplete.
Where was the kit now? I looked at the picture again. It had been photographed on this desk. I opened all the drawers, even the ones I knew were too small to hold the box.
I tried the closet door. It was locked. I grabbed the key off the fabric and inserted it, pulling the door open hard. I stuck the key in my pocket. I expected to see the two sewing kits, side by side on the floor, but the closet was empty.
I heard the lunch bell ring, and the chatter of quilters as they passed on their way to the dining hall. I thought of Nan, mournfully playing the piano this morning. She’d been so sad. For a moment, I’d thought I could have given her some good news.
Where was Mercedes?
I walked outside, frustrated, and ran down the stone steps. There was one sleeping room below the main level. Through the window, I saw Mercedes’ distinctive pink briefcase. Rather than leave her stuff in the open living room, she must have locked up her work stuff in her room before going to lunch. The sewing box could be inside.
I stepped down until I was at the door to the room and knocked loudly. When there was no answer, I tried the knob.
Locked, of course. I peered into the window alongside the door. I could see a desk with a pink file and a laptop. No sewing boxes.
The curtain blew against the open window. The window was low to the ground and wide enough for me to crawl in. The ledge came right to my hip. If I could get the screen off, I could get in. Building in a more genteel era, the architect had not anticipated burglars. People were far more trusting in those days, not expecting people to crawl in through the windows.
I looked around. This side of the building faced away from the main lodge and away from the dining hall. Behind me was a wooded slope. If I moved quickly, I could get in and out before anyone knew I was there.
I pulled at the screen’s wooden frame. It moved slightly. I broke a nail, trying to pry it away from the window. A car key would help. Or a nail file. I wasn’t the type to go for acrylic nails that could be used as a tool. Too bad my keys were locked up.
I tried using the skeleton key in my pocket. I got in under the track. The screen popped off and I shoved the window open wider. It stuck slightly in the track, but then gave way. I crawled over the sill, landing awkwardly on the desk chair. I stepped down and pulled the curtain closed so that no passersby would see me.
No sewing boxes in sight. This room had a closet, too. I pulled on the knob, but it wouldn’t give. Another locked door.
Skeleton keys would fit most any lock. I tried the one from upstairs. The door knob turned with a satisfying click.
There it was. The Rose Box was on the floor of the closet. I peered into the space behind it, expecting to see the German Cross box, too, but only the Rose Box was there. I opened it. The slot for the sewing bird was still empty.
I closed the door, making sure the lock didn’t engage. I wanted to be able to access the space again.
What to do? If I confronted Mercedes alone, she might train her gun on me. Fake or no, the fact was that she’d been willing to pull it on Paul. I didn’t want to chance her having a real one nearby.
I could find the gun and take it with me, but there wasn’t enough time
to do that and get Tony here before lunch was over.
I thought about moving the box to a spot where it could be seen from the outside. But if I did that and Mercedes returned before I did, I was screwed.
A pretty pink paisley box marked “Vehicles” sat on the desk. I opened the lid and found my set of car keys. I’d be able to get around so much faster in my car.
I made sure the door to the outside didn’t lock automatically. I needed to be able to tell Tony that I’d found the room open. I crossed my fingers that Mercedes was busy with dietary problems in the dining hall and wouldn’t return to her room early.
I used the house phone on the outside wall to call the Ranger station. Tony was out to lunch, the friendly voice said. In town; she wasn’t sure where.
I cruised slowly down Lighthouse Avenue. I looked again at the picture I’d found in the living room. Tony would be interested to know that Mercedes had been blackmailing someone. The Rose Box wasn’t valuable without the sewing bird. Mercedes—or whoever she’d sent the picture to—had to have the missing tool.
Nan had been right about one thing: the second box had been stolen to cover for the real theft. The object of desire was not the German Cross Box, but the Rose.
I got to the end without seeing him or his car. I made a U-turn by the theater and headed back toward Asilomar.
My mind was reeling. What was I going to do now?
One of the last commercial buildings on the way out of town was a small red house. Diners sat on the patio. I slowed, trying to spot my brother.
Tony was alone, leaning against a post. I parked along the side street, and waved him over. He lumbered off the porch. I never would have looked for him here. It was a cute little gem of a victorian house, converted to a lunch place—very “ladies who lunch.” Not rangers who munch.
I called to him, “Tony, come with me.”
He opened the passenger door, glancing up the street. “Sis, I’m waiting for someone …”
“Please. Get in, there’s no time to waste. Lunch hour’s nearly over.”
He gave a glance at his watch and again at the street. He clearly had an appointment.
I begged him again. “It’s got to do with the troubles at Sewing-by-the-Sea. It’s important.”
He got in, and I pulled out, barely giving him time to close his door. He pulled his seat belt around him.
“What’s going on?” he said, texting as he talked. I tried to peek, but beyond, “Duty calls,” I couldn’t see any more of the message.
“Did you hear about the stolen sewing box?” I asked.
He nodded. “Mercedes reported it to us, yes.”
“It’s no longer missing. I saw it in Mercedes’ room. We’ve got to get back before she’s finished with lunch.”
“Dewey, slow down.” I glanced at my speedometer. I was doing forty-five in a twenty-five zone. I took my foot off the gas.
“This is serious, Tony. Mercedes was threatening to sue the Park Service for not securing the building.” It was only a little lie. She’d sue if she could.
Now I had his full attention. “And this thing is in her room?”
“In the Pirates’ Den. Her room.”
Tony looked at me suspiciously. “How do you know?”
I lied smoothly. When my brother’d left home for college, I was just honing my dissembling skills. He didn’t know how good I was. “I went by to see Mercedes and I saw it. Sitting in a closet.” I hadn’t thought up a good cover story, and I was faltering, but Tony didn’t seem to notice.
“Maybe she’s returning it to the owner.”
We were pulling into Asilomar. I parked in a fifteen-minute spot reserved for registering guests because it was closer to the Pirates’ Den. I’d have to take the chance that Mercedes might see my car. But being in violation of her no-keys rule was nothing compared to stealing Nan’s sewing kit.
I was ready to burst through the door, but Tony stopped me a few feet away from it. He knocked loudly. “Miss Madsen?” he said.
“Sis,” he said. “I can’t just waltz in here.”
“Look in the window,” I urged. Maybe he’d see the case, though I knew it was hopeless. I’d left the case in the closet and closed the door.
He protested, but pressed his face against the screen. “I would need cause to open …”
He stopped and straightened. His eyes went flat and he grabbed the gun at his belt.
“What?” I said, my heart flipping over at the sight of my brother in law enforcement mode.
“Stand back,” he said.
I took a step forward.
“Dewey,” he warned, his voice harsh. I’d never heard that particular tone from him before. I backed up, across the sidewalk and against the retaining wall.
He spoke into this walkie-talkie, a series of codes I didn’t understand.
“Now what?” I said as he stood guarding the door, eyes roaming the area without lighting on me or anything else for long.
“You wait here. Don’t move.”
He opened the door.
I paced outside. It was close to one o’clock. Soon three hundred quilters, including Mercedes, would leave the dining hall and start back to class. Someone was bound to pass. Mercedes was inevitably on her way here. My heart hammered.
Tony’s walkie-talkie crackled inside and he shut the door firmly. I forced myself to be calm. I cracked my knuckles, channeling Vangie at the height of the tension. I didn’t get the same relief she did.
I tried to focus on the outcome. It would be nice to see Nan’s face when the sewing kit was returned to her. She would be so happy.
The door opened a crack. “Dewey, you need to stand way back.”
My foot, which had been inching toward him, stopped dead. “What is it, Tony?”
His face was in shadow. A gull’s plaintive cry split the air. “When you were here earlier, the room was empty?”
“Yes, completely.”
“You weren’t in here, right?”
I felt a pit open in my stomach. I’d already told him I hadn’t been in. I couldn’t get him in that kind of trouble. A sister who breaks and enters.
“Of course not,” I said with as much bluster as I could. “I told you I just looked in the window. Why?”
Tony came out, closing the door behind him. His face was grave. He rubbed at his nose, and pulled on his lower lip. A scenario came rushing back at me. Tony at eighteen, having wrecked the family van. He’d been tugging on his lip while Dad lectured him about the finer points of driving in the first rain of the season.
“She’s dead, Dewey. Mercedes is lying on the floor. Deceased.”
“Are you messing with me? Because if this is your idea of a joke,” I said, moving toward Tony, trying to get past him.
He came out, blood on the hem of his khakis. He must have taken her pulse. “This is a crime scene. I’ve got to establish a perimeter. You are a civilian. Stand back.”
A crime scene. Murder? I could believe she’d died of a heart attack or an aneurysm, but that didn’t mean crime scene. A crime scene I’d been a part of it.
I inspected the window I’d opened earlier. There was no evidence that anyone had broken in. My heart rate slowed a bit.
I looked at the frame, but there was no sign that the door had been forced. No gouge marks, no scratches on the lock. The hinges were intact. Mercedes had opened the door to her attacker.
She had let someone in with the ultimate complaint.
As Tony opened the door wide enough to slip back into the room, I took a look inside.
The closet door was open. I was betting the missing sewing kit was gone again, but I didn’t ask about that.
“Did you find her gun?”
“Her gun?” Tony said seriously. He creas
ed his forehead.
“Earlier in the week, she pointed it at Paul Wiggins.”
“Paul Wiggins, the guy whose wife went into the ocean?” Tony was confused, and I knew he wouldn’t stop until he had everything straight in his mind. It was very important to him that things match up.
I explained, “Paul tried to get on campus the other day. He thought his wife was here. Mercedes took umbrage at his demands, and produced a gun to drive him away.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Tony asked.
“She told me it wasn’t real.”
“The gun that killed her was real,” he said.
So she’d been shot. Poor Mercedes.
Tony was scowling. I felt the twinge of being a six-year-old getting in her big brother’s way as he was leaving for school.
“Are you sure that you saw the sewing box?” he said. “I mean, you were outside looking in, right? You could have been mistaken.”
“It was in there,” I said. “The killer must have taken it.”
“That’s not the only plausible scenario. Her assistant could have removed it. The owner could have stopped by and gotten it. There could be any number of reasons why it’s no longer in the room. We can’t jump to conclusions.”
You can’t jump to conclusions, I thought. I could jump any old way I wanted to.
“I bet Paul killed her,” I said.
“Dewey, come on. Leave this to the experts.”
I bristled. “Look, Tony, I’ve probably taken part in more homicides than you have. I’m not a suspect here. I did not touch the gun.”
“And you never went into the room?” he said, watching my face closely. I tightened my lips, keeping my face neutral. I didn’t want him reading my expression.
I was saved from answering by the appearance of Ranger Schmitt, followed quickly by Detective Graham of Pacific Grove PD. I was shunted outside as the police entered the room and took over the crime scene.
I found a rock to sit on. I could see the ocean from here, and vaguely hear the sea lions on Seal Rock screaming their names.
A car from the Attorney General’s office arrived. Soon after, the Monterey County Coroner. The police gathered in the lot below. The death investigation had begun.
