Hoarded to Death (A Jamie Brodie Mystery)

by Perry, Meg

  I wasn’t entirely successful.

  The next morning, Pete got an email with the final proofs of a textbook chapter he’d written. He took his laptop into my dad’s office to work on it and I went outside with my dad to help in the garden. Dad’s back yard was small, and he’d converted about three quarters of it into raised beds for vegetables. He began thinning a bed of lettuce, and I started forking compost into an empty bed, to get it ready for planting.

  It didn’t take long until my dad asked, “Is everything okay with you and Pete?”

  Shit. My dad knew me too well, sometimes. “Yeah. He’s up for tenure, you know, and it’s kind of stressing him out. But we’re fine.”

  “There’s no question that he’ll get tenure, is there?”

  “No, and I keep telling him that, but you know how it is.”

  “Yeah.” I could tell from his tone of voice that he didn’t buy it. He thought it over for a minute, then straightened up and looked at me. “Jamie?”

  I couldn’t look at him. “Don’t ask me anything else? Please?”

  “Okay.” I could feel his gaze for a few more seconds, then he went back to the lettuce.

  That night after we’d gone to bed, I told Pete. “My dad knows there’s something going on with us.”

  I felt Pete tense. “What did you tell him?”

  “That you were worried about getting tenure.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  “No.”

  “Shit. Now I’ve made you lie to your dad.”

  “It wasn’t exactly a lie.” I turned my head on the pillow to look at him. “You could tell him.”

  He was quiet for a minute. “I couldn’t stand pity. Especially from your dad.”

  “He’s a Marine. Pity isn’t in his skill set.”

  Pete huffed a soft laugh, but didn’t say anything.

  “Are you sorry you told me?”

  It took him a second to answer. “No, I’m not sorry. But I didn’t consider the ramifications. I thought we could just go back to the way we were, and you’d be satisfied.”

  “You didn’t have a reason to think otherwise. I’d never said anything.”

  “You were going to, though, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I was getting there.” I sighed. “I don’t like being the fuckee all the time. It makes me feel…” I searched for the right word. “Subordinate.”

  That got Pete to look at me. “I do not think of you as subordinate. In any way. We are equals.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  Pete turned his face back to the ceiling. There was despair in his voice. “What are we gonna do?”

  An idea popped into my head. I reached over and took his hand. “What about this? Why don’t we take a break from anal for a while? Just for a while. We can practice our other skills. Maybe that’ll help us get back in a good space.”

  He thought about that for a minute. “Okay. I’m willing to try that.”

  “Okay. Good.” I squeezed his hand. “But not tonight, huh?”

  “No. Not tonight.”

  “Cool.” I raised up on my elbow and kissed him. “G’night. I love you.”

  “Good night. I love you too.”

  Neither one of us said anything else, but neither one of us went to sleep for some time.

  We spent a couple more days at my dad’s. Pete didn’t tell him what was going on, and I didn’t say anything else about it. When we got home, we spent an entire day painting the living room, then got caught up in New Year’s celebrations with friends. We recovered from the New Year’s Eve revelry with a Clean My Hoard marathon on January 1, then went back to work the next day. I didn’t hear anything from the police, and the phone that Eckhoff had given me didn’t ring.

  And we never got a chance to talk to Jennifer.

  January

  The assistant curator of the Book of Kells exhibit from Trinity College Dublin had arranged to come to LA the week after New Year’s. Conrad asked me to pick her up from the airport, so I made a sign that said “Trinity College” and stood at baggage claim with the other chauffeurs.

  The assistant curator was probably close to my age, medium height, dark hair, pleasantly plump. She was dressed in a long skirt and a chunky cable knit sweater that was too warm for Southern California, and she looked a little disheveled. But her smile was genuine and her handshake was firm. "Good afternoon, Dr. Brodie. I'm Gillian Murray." And her Irish accent was delightful.

  "Welcome to California. How was your flight?"

  She sighed. "Long."

  We chatted on the way back to campus about the Book of Kells, Trinity College, Oxford, Ireland, Scotland…she was easy to talk to. When we got to campus, I parked and walked with her to the library.

  "Are you hungry? Would you like a cup of coffee?"

  "Ah, I've had enough coffee to float the Armada. Is there any tea to be had?"

  I guided her into Cafe 451 and bought her a cup of tea and a croissant. We sat at one of the tables near the door. She watched the students coming and going with a raised eyebrow. "They don't wear many clothes here, do they?"

  I laughed. "No. It makes it easier for them to get a little beach time in between classes."

  "Right." She gave me a skeptical grin, then took a sip of tea and sighed with pleasure. "Mmm. Not bad." She spread jam on her croissant and said, "Now. Tell me how you came by this manuscript page."

  I told her about the TV show and everything that had happened since. She listened closely. When I had finished, she shook her head. "Sounds like one of your movies, hmm?"

  "It does. But this one's true. It's LA. Weird stuff happens here."

  "Are you a native?"

  "California, yes. LA, no. I'm from San Diego. A much more normal place."

  She smiled. We chatted a bit more as she drank her tea. She was from Killarney, originally, but had moved to Dublin for college and had never left. She was 34 and had a boyfriend with the Garda. We talked about having cops as relatives for a while. Then she finished her tea, pushed back from the table and stood up. "Right, then, I've been revived. Shall we see this manuscript?"

  I took her downstairs and signed into the Special Collections area. We went to Conrad's office and I made the introductions. Conrad greeted her effusively, then we went through the steel doors into the room with the Book of Kells facsimile. Conrad went to the drawer where we'd stored the manuscript; we all pulled on gloves and face masks, and he took the manuscript out.

  Gillian sucked in her breath and said softly, "Holy mother of God." She took the magnifying glass that Conrad offered her and examined it closely, muttering to herself, then pulled a notepad and pen out of her bag and made quick notes. She turned it over and did the same thing. All in all, she examined the manuscript for about 20 minutes. Conrad and I just waited.

  Finally, she straightened up and looked at us, eyes wide over the face mask. "If this is a fake, it's a very, very good one. I don't know how it's possible, but I believe this might truly be..." She stopped and laughed a little. "I can barely bring myself to say the words. But I think it might be real."

  Conrad's eyes were wide too. "One of the missing pages of the original Book of Kells."

  "Yes." She picked up the magnifying glass again, then pointed to a spot on the page and handed him the glass. "See the small holes?"

  "Yes. I know they were made so the writing would be even."

  "Yes. But the edges are aged. You can make a piece of vellum look aged quite easily, but it's very difficult to make the edges of these tiny holes look uniformly aged as well. And these holes are quite old."

  We all just looked at each other for a few moments, then I said, "Okay. What now?"

  Gillian asked, "Who owns this? The woman in whose home it was found?"

  "Yes. My ex-sister-in-law."

  She nodded. "I think the next step is to draw up a contract with her. Pending authentication, the contract would restrict her from bargaining with anyone else."

  "I think she'd b
e okay with that."

  "Wonderful."

  Conrad put the manuscript back in its drawer, then closed the door and spun the lock. We went back to Conrad's office, where we shed our gloves and masks. "Even if it's not the genuine page, it's worth a bit of money, just for being a beautiful work of art. We'd stipulate that if we didn't buy it from Ms. Graham for our collection, we'd return it to her and she could do with it whatever she liked from that point."

  "But for all this to happen, you'll have to take it back to Dublin."

  "Yes."

  “Of course.” Conrad was beyond delighted. “You’ll want to carry it yourself.”

  “Yes. But I’m not going back until next week. Can I leave it with you until then?”

  Conrad beamed. “Naturally. We’re glad to keep it for you.”

  Gillian smiled. “I’m going to contact Trinity and have the solicitors draw up a contract. Can we arrange a meeting with your sister-in-law, Dr. Brodie? Say, the first of next week?”

  “Ex-sister-in-law. Yes, that’ll be fine.”

  “Excellent.” Gillian pulled out a business card, turned it over and wrote on the back. “I’m staying at UCLA’s guest house – thank you for those arrangements, by the way, Dr. Huffstetler. Here’s my email address. And I will contact you, Dr. Brodie, when I have a contract. You may want to tell your ex-sister in law to alert her attorney, to make certain the contract meets with his or her approval.”

  “Sure, I’ll do that.” I doubted Jennifer had an attorney, but I could recommend my dad’s buddy Neil to her.

  “Very well. I’ll be in touch.”

  We saw Gillian out. I paused in Conrad’s office on the way back upstairs. “Well, it looks like we might have the real thing.”

  “Indeed.” I’d never seen Conrad so pleased. “This is the most excitement I’ve had since…” He thought. “Well, since ever. At least professionally.”

  I grinned. “Hang on, Conrad. We may not be done with the excitement.”

  The first week of class was always hectic, and this was no exception. On Thursday, I did manage to call Jennifer, to tell her about Gillian’s visit and to give her Neil’s phone number. By the time Friday rolled around, I was ready for the weekend. I was still carrying the police cell phone with me, but had nearly forgotten that I’d had it. It had been over a month since Eckhoff and I had visited the book dealers.

  So when the phone rang, I nearly jumped out of my skin. I looked at the caller ID; it said “Unknown Number.” Of course. I grabbed a pen and paper to take notes, and answered. “Hello?”

  A female voice. That was a surprise. The voice sounded disguised, but it was definitely female. “Dr. Brodie.”

  “Yes?”

  “I understand that the university is interested in old manuscripts.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So your donor is still interested?”

  “Yes, if an attractive item was to come available.”

  “How much is your donor willing to spend?”

  “Well, that depends on the item, its condition, its authentication…”

  “Oh, authentication won’t be a problem.”

  “May I ask what it is that you have?”

  “I don’t have it.” The voice’s disguise seemed to be slipping a bit; the pitch was rising. The speaker was starting to sound like a teenager. “But I know where it is.”

  “Don’t be offended by my asking this, but is it yours to sell?”

  She laughed. “That’s not a problem.”

  Like hell. “That’s good to hear. May I ask what the item is?”

  “It’s a page from a ninth century manuscript.”

  I tried to sound offended. “Just one page?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this any more on the phone. Do you think your donor would be interested, or not?”

  “Well, yes, I think it’s possible. But we’re going to have to examine the item here at the university before the donor will consider making an offer.”

  “Right. How soon can we set that up?”

  “Um – it’s Friday afternoon, our manuscript specialist is gone for the day. I’ll have to talk to him and get back with you. Can I get your name and number?”

  “I’d rather not do that. I’ll call you back. When will you know?”

  “Monday afternoon. After 3:00, 3:30. I won’t get a chance to meet with him before then.”

  “Okay, fine. I’ll call you at 3:30 on Monday.” She hung up.

  Whoa. I set down the phone and scrawled the rest of my notes. Then I picked up my office phone and called Detective Eckhoff.

  “Eckhoff.”

  “Hey, it’s Jamie Brodie. I just got a call on the phone you gave me.”

  “No shit.” He sounded excited. Come to think of it, I was kind of excited myself. “Did you get a name?”

  “No. She wouldn’t give her name or number.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yep. She was trying to disguise her voice, but not doing a very good job. Definitely a woman. She sounded young.”

  “What else did she say?”

  I read him the conversation as constructed from the notes I took. He was impressed. “You got a lot there.”

  “Well, not really. I don’t have an ID or location or anything.”

  “No, but it sounds like this might be the person with the torn page. Or at least that person’s agent.”

  “Yeah. So do you want to be here when she calls back?”

  “Sure do. You said 3:30 Monday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, I’ll come to your office. See you then.”

  Finally. Maybe we were going to get a break in this case.

  UCLA’s rugby team was having a great year. I was teaching Pete the details of the game, and we went to matches when we could. On Saturday afternoon, UCLA was playing UCSB. It was a chilly day, but clear, so we bundled up and went to campus. We were settling into our bleacher seats when I spotted Kendall McEwen a few seats down. He saw me at the same time and waved, then came over to join us. “Hey, mate! Mind if I sit?”

  “No, no, sit down. How’s it going?”

  Kendall and I talked for a while about my upcoming trip to Oxford. The match began, and my attention was divided between the field and Kendall, who kept up a constant stream of chatter. He kept touching my arm, nudging me, being almost…flirtatious, but I didn’t think much about it. The talk from other Oxonians was that Kendall was an equal opportunity flirt, but was completely straight when push came to shove. I could believe that. Kendall had always seemed like the kind of guy who wanted to be admired by everyone in the room, male or female.

  UCLA had scored two quick trys but was having a run of sloppy play. I was trying to pay more attention to the game when Kendall asked, “So, any word on your scrap of illuminated manuscript?”

  I was about to answer him when UCSB scored a penalty goal. Pete leaned into me and pointed at the field. “Okay, what just happened there?”

  I explained, which took a while – Pete kept asking questions, which I wanted to answer because I wanted him to learn and enjoy the game. It distracted me from Kendall, and I completely forgot that he’d asked me about the manuscript. UCLA finally straightened up and scored again, and Kendall didn’t mention the manuscript again.

  UCLA won handily, 49-3. We said goodbye to Kendall and headed home. I was pulling onto Wilshire when Pete said, “I don’t think you should tell Kendall about the intact manuscript page.”

  I glanced at him, surprised. “I didn’t tell him.”

  “I know, because I jumped in and asked you a question to distract you.”

  “Oh, you did that on purpose? You didn’t really want to know about penalty goals?”

  “Yeah…I wanted to know about penalty goals, but I also did it on purpose. I didn’t want you to tell him anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t think I like him.”

  “Okay…why not?”

  “For one thing, he was all
over you from the time he sat down.”

  “What? He didn’t mean anything by that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I…that’s just Kendall. He flirts with anything that moves – men, women, dogs, whatever. It’s just the way he is. He’s completely straight.” We were at a red light, and I looked over at Pete. “Are you jealous?”

  “No, of course not. I just don’t like that kind of behavior. From anyone.”

  “Hmm. What’s the other thing?”

  “What other thing?”

  “You said you didn’t like him because ‘for one thing…’ What’s the other thing?”

  “Oh.” Pete was quiet for a couple of seconds. “I don’t know, exactly. He just sort of…sets off my cop radar.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I can’t explain it. It’s…it’s instinct or something. I don’t know.”

  “Huh. I think your radar might be rusty. As far as I know, Kendall’s as upstanding as they come.”

  “If you say so.” But I could tell Pete was still bothered. And I wondered if maybe he was a little jealous.

  On Monday, I tried to keep busy with other things, but it was hard to not think about what was going to happen that afternoon. As a result, my concentration was kind of shot, and I didn't get much accomplished. I invited Conrad to join Eckhoff and me in my office at 3:00, and he accepted. I also called Gillian to see if she wanted to be there, and she said yes. My office would be crowded. I borrowed a couple of extra chairs from Liz and squeezed them into the corners.

  At least the reference desk was a bit of a distraction. There weren't many people around, so Clinton stayed to talk after he gave us the word of the day (which was heliacal, meaning relating to the sun). I told him and Liz about the call we'd gotten and my appointment with Eckhoff and the caller at 3:30.

  Clinton looked surprised. "I would not have expected the thieves to be willing to meet at the university."

  "Oh, I don't think they'll agree to that. We'll have to arrange some other meeting place. They won't want to be that exposed."

  Liz asked, "The cops still have no idea who's behind this at all?"

  "They haven't been able to find any connections. Jennifer swears she didn't tell anyone about having valuable items in boxes, although we're starting to wonder if that's true. The old lady didn't have any family, at least none the police have been able to find. Wally, the dead guy, had no apparent connection to Jennifer or the old lady. The old lady's lawyer is a dead end. So we're kind of stuck. Which was the idea behind this little sting operation."