The back door opened. I was happy to see my best friend Maggie stomping the snow from underfoot.
“Hey, you! Another one, eh?” Maggie asked. She had been the maid of honor at our wedding, and her fiancé was Aaron’s patrol partner, Tim. “How are you taking it? Tim told me about the murder and thought I’d swing over.”
I gave her a hug. Within the folds of her arms, I thought of cinnamon and spice and everything nice.
“Blanche was so nice.” I gave her a full report about Blanche, and how I was planning to show her Tad’s memorabilia before she left town. “Pretty incredible, isn’t it? Let’s get an extra chair. We can sit in the showroom. It’s sunny and warmer in there.” I picked up a chair and set it next to mine, behind the counter.
“Tim said it was a robbery gone sour. I figured you could fill me in, since he won’t.” She cocked her head. “You know how secretive cops are.”
“It was murder. I always seem to be in the thick of things, don’t I?” I rubbed my right eyebrow where a twitch had developed.
“The police don’t know where to turn, that’s my impression,” Maggie said.
“Agreed.” I frowned. “Too many unanswered questions concerning this.” I shook my head and got up. I went over to hang the soldier uniform near the appropriate era’s White House display. “This once belonged to Tad Lincoln. It’s exactly what you see in the pictures.”
“It’s a miracle it’s all been so carefully preserved, isn’t it?” Maggie leaned back and looked at me with serious eyes. “But I don’t like to hear about another murder.”
“Well then, how about a hundred-year-old puzzle?” I gave her a rundown about the weird-looking pages in the diary and the staircase drawing in the hatbox.
“But, how does Blanche’s missing laptop figure into this, if at all? For that matter, what strings them all together?” Maggie said.
“Mary Lincoln, but there’s no cohesiveness to any of this.”
“Think over what she read. Better yet, go get that diary,” Maggie said.
“Hold on.” I got up and went to the workroom and found it. I sat back down and opened the diary, riffling through several pages until coming to the pertinent ones. “See? Concentric writing. They look like big wheels made with letters.”
“Interesting, but it’s nutty, isn’t it?” When I shrugged, she said, “Since the diary was sold on the open market, plenty of individuals have seen it, so it must not have much meaning.”
“I’d like to decipher it.”
“It’d be fun. I love a good puzzle.” Maggie glanced outside. “The murder. Right outside, eh?”
“Sort of, closer to Luke’s. Good thing it wasn’t inside my store this time. I think I would have the place on the market right now if she’d been found in here.”
“I would, too.” We both shivered. “Who is top of your suspect list?”
“No clue.”
“Has anyone been interviewed?” Maggie asked.
“I suspect the local store owners have been,” I said. “Say, is Tim joining the pond hockey team?”
“Of course. It’ll be fun to watch them skate.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow night for burgers, and we’ll watch the practice,” I said.
“Yep. Well, it’s time for me to go to work.” She stood. “See you later.”
There were two hours left until closing. I thought about displaying the houses inside a display case currently stored in the basement. I’d set the case right near the service counter.
Making my usual circuit around the room, I stopped once again at the Lincoln house. My thoughts unraveled over the trauma and drama that played a major role in their everyday lives. Back in the workroom, I laid out the fabric for sewing two inaugural gowns for Dolley Madison. Once the needle was threaded, I stitched and pulled, stitched and sewed. My thoughts relaxed from a jittery state as I settled into a more peaceful state. Just as I was fully content with my work, something surfaced from the dregs of my memory.
The letter from Springfield. Blanche mentioned it before tea. It must be important, especially if it only recently had been discovered. How could I have forgotten?
Was that what got Blanche killed?
Chapter Four
I glanced out through frosted windows and decided to call Inga rather than chase her down to her store to tell her about displaying the miniature houses.
Holly answered, and I asked, “Is Inga around?”
“Just stepped out. Not sure when she’ll be back.”
“Okay. Ever figure out what happened to the stolen books?”
“Nope. Not a word. Maybe they were sold?”
“Please tell her I called.” I puzzled over the discrepancy of the books. Could they really have been stolen? I turned to the computer. It seemed to be running a little slow, but sometimes when more people were on the Internet, it took longer for the search engines to work.
I accessed my bookmark for Blanche’s website—her research specialty and doctoral thesis had been on Abraham Lincoln’s speeches from before his White House years. I found that to be interesting since she had done a remarkable job impersonating Mary Lincoln. My first impression was that she had focused on Mary Lincoln. Her blog site mentioned progress in her quest to locate the Lost Speech.
The phone rang. It was a prospective customer, inquiring about our store hours. I was about to go back to the web and research the speech when the front door tingled. I looked up and saw that Trisha, who worked for the Veteran’s Administration, had come to collect the cash from the Pennies Jar.
“It’s cold out.” Trisha stomped her boots inside the door, holding in one hand a cardboard tray with two steaming cups and an empty jar in the other. The chocolaty smell was heavenly. “Time to warm up.” She strolled toward the counter, but I met her halfway and grabbed the cups. She replaced the full Pennies Jar with an empty one.
“Thanks.” I sipped from my chosen cup.
“I figured you could use a warm treat. These old buildings leave a lot to be desired in the wintertime. It’s not just cold. It’s darn freezing.” She shivered and drank from her cup. “Looks like you did pretty well with the collection. Or should I say, we did pretty well?” She held up the jar to peer at all the loose change and dollar bills inside of it.
“It seems like it.” I opened one of the bakery boxes, offering her a cookie. “Spread the word that Monday we’re having a special on the dollhouses plus goodies to celebrate the January First Lady birthdays.”
“Thanks.” She took a bite of a cookie before tossing her empty cup into the wastebasket. “Will do. Don’t forget to tell people that all donations go directly to the Vets, if anyone asks.” She headed for the door and stopped. “And thank you, again.”
“You betcha!” I shivered as the cold air once again blasted into the room.
I finished my drink and checked for e-mail. Frances, from the House, had returned my message.
Liv, the stuffed bear is for sale. It’s two hundred dollars. The dollhouse is two-fifty. Both are high priced to help pay for maintenance and upkeep. We keep the house under glass and treat all stuffed animals with non-toxic solutions to prevent deterioration. Let me know. //Frances.
I replied:
Frances, I’ll take both. The check’s in the mail. //Liv.
As I wondered where the four-hundred and fifty dollars would come from, I glanced at the clock. It was finally closing time. I hoped for lots of sales on Monday, as well as plenty of prospective customers. I made sure the cookie boxes were sealed and readied the coffeepot for heating the cider.
“Good night, ladies,” I called. I stopped near the Civil War White House. To the Mr. Lincoln doll, I said, “Mr. Prez, please take Mrs. Lincoln for a buggy ride tonight. She needs cheering up!” I winked at the doll. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”
I continued to the workroom where the garbage needed gathering and taken outside for disposal. I grabbed my jacket, went to the dumpster, and pulled out the little step stool I kep
t hidden behind there. The slippery foundation was worrisome, but I managed to empty the garbage without a hitch. It’d gotten so cold, that I wasn’t looking forward to the walk home.
I noticed the neighboring house behind the store had a frozen rink in its backyard. One little boy was shooting hockey pucks into a small net. A charming, small snowman stood to the side. It seemed to be the size I would’ve constructed as a child. I went back inside.
After bundling up, I grabbed my bag before I stepped out into the frigid, cold night air. With the sun setting in late afternoon this time of the year, my walk home always seemed so desolate. I locked up, made sure the door was secure, and headed the short distance home.
Cars swished past me as I walked. I was relieved not to meet any outside lingerers as I went by the lone corner bar, still bedecked in holiday lights. The cold air felt good on my skin at first, but now it stung. My nose hurt and my eyes watered. The intake of air in my lungs hurt as I sucked in each breath. Underfoot, the snow squeaked and scrunched. I was happy when I turned the corner of my block and saw that the colored lights encircling the single pine tree in my front yard were lit. Aaron must have flipped the light switch before leaving for work. For some odd reason, Grandma insisted that the bulb string be left in place until the first day of March.
“Hi.” I waved to the neighbor children playing, immediately ducking to avoid being hit by a flying snowball. I quickly made a snowball of my own and threw it, missing my target. I raced up to the door but was hit from behind by a snowball thrown by one of the kids. Laughing, I punched in the security code and it allowed me to enter the side door. I brushed snow from my back then stomped my boots. My feet and hands tingled from the cold. I went into the garage to check inside the car to see if Aaron had brought all the dress parts into the house. The hoop still sat in the backseat. I grabbed it and carried it in inside, setting it carefully on the table before locking up the garage and doors. I pulled off my boots and other outerwear. Then I took the hoop into the back bedroom where all my extra store items were stored.
After hanging up the crinoline and other dress pieces, I went out to the kitchen. I made myself a cup of hot chocolate and nuked a bag of popcorn. My phone rang and Aaron’s number was displayed. “Hey, babe.”
“Did those kids get you again with snowballs?” I admitted it with a smile, and he became serious. “Her laptop has been found. There were no fingerprints, and its hard drive is blank.”
“That means?”
“Back to square one.”
“Thanks for the update.” I hesitated and asked, “Where was the laptop found? I presume her bag with her possessions were located, also.”
“The pawnshop had the laptop.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Who are the main suspects?”
“Liv! No! You are to keep your nose out of police business.”
“It’s got to be either Luke or Holly.”
“Why? Why those two?”
“They are the most needy. Holly for college tuition. Luke, I’m not sure, but he has a continual changeover of employees. It seems odd, to me. Also, his eyes lit up when he learned the value of Mister Lincoln’s Lost Speech and that it’s never been found.”
“I’ll tell the detectives, but you stay out of it.” “Okay.”
“I’m meeting later with the guys to plan our hockey strategies. Tomorrow night is practice, don’t forget.”
“Okay. Enjoy yourself. You won’t be too late, will you?”
“Probably will. None of us get off work until eleven.”
“I forgot.” We disconnected. I was not happy about the confirmed method of murder or the blank laptop. This meant the killer was on the loose, and the police weren’t any closer to finding the murderer than they were last night. Blanche’s website and all of her accounts were probably compromised, and all files copied, too. What file could she have had that someone would murder for? I grabbed my popped popcorn bag out of the microwave, headed into the living room and sank into my chair where I fell asleep watching an old TV movie. It was very late when I woke. I went down the hall to our bedroom and climbed into bed, covering myself up with heavy blankets.
The following morning was Sunday. I awoke with Aaron beside me. Hearing the west wind whistling through the trees, I pulled the blankets over my head.
The phone rang at the usual time, nine o’clock.
“Yes, Grandma,” I said, yawning. “It’s early.” Grandma used to call at 8:30, but after a few lectures from me about calling so early, she now called at nine. I had scooted lower under the blankets and was just getting cozy with my husband. One of these days, I hoped to have enough courage to not answer the phone.
“We’ve ordered salads from Luke at the Brew Café, and Grandpa’s going to grill salmon for dinner,” Grandma announced. “We’re having a few people from the neighborhood over. We decided that you and Aaron are invited.” I could almost hear Grandma smiling, which made me believe Grandpa would be right next to her, sipping his coffee. “Can you and Aaron come? Yes, no, or are you undecided?”
“Oh yes, but Aaron has hockey later, so we won’t be able to stay real late.”
“It’s just the afternoon, dear. Don’t worry, you’re not spending the night,” Grandma said.
“All right. Do you want us to bring something, like maybe some Jell-O?” I asked to be polite, already knowing what the answer would be.
“That’s quite all right, dear. We don’t want indigestion.” I heard the stifled giggle. “We’ll eat at two. Come over when you’re ready.”
“Very funny,” I said. “Bye,” then hung up. My grandparents were in their eighties, but they still acted young and carefree. They’d been married for over sixty years, and you could tell they were still very much in love. They held hands—giggling in each other’s presence at times. I found that remarkable. I hoped to be just like them at that age.
I rolled over to look at Aaron and said, “We’re going to Grandma’s for dinner at two today. They’re also having some neighbors over. Grandpa’s grilling. It will be like a winter patio party, I bet.”
“What should we do until then?” Aaron pulled me on top of him.
“Show me…”
A long while later my laptop hummed. We were in the kitchen, and Aaron was toasting a couple of bagels.
“This thing is so slow. I noticed that the store computer is slow, too. I thought it might be because of the weather and more people are online.”
“It’s hard to say, so we’d better take a look. Our router should be giving you good speed, since you’re connected right to it.” He replenished my coffee and set the toasted bagels and strawberry cream cheese spread on the table, along with knives for spreading. “Let me see.” He turned the laptop toward himself. “Here it comes, but this worries me.”
“The background is a stuffed toy bear. Isn’t that cute?” I logged into the store’s website. “Wait a second. Has my firewall been disabled?”
“That’s impossible. Or at least I don’t think it could happen. I’ll talk to the police department’s computer guy when I get a chance. We can run a virus scan later. Did anything strange show on the screen?”
“Just the image of a stuffed bear. I think it came from the Mary Todd Lincoln House.” I reached for a bagel half, spread cream cheese on it, and took a bite. The wonderful taste brought a smile to my lips. I ate it right up.
“The detectives had me sign my life away but allowed me to bring Blanche’s belongings home. Actually, there are a couple of things that disturb them, and they would like for you to inspect along the dress seams. Also, the hatbox rattles, like there’s something inside. The detectives are afraid of ruining it because it once belonged to the first lady and its historical value. The Minnesota Historical Society was contacted, and they mentioned your name. Since you had spent many hours there researching your dissertation, they felt confident in your expertise.” He smiled and winked. “Now you can inspect it.”
“Oh wow! Where is it?” I glan
ced over toward the door and out into the living room but didn’t see it. “Car?”
“Yep. I was too tired to carry it in.” Aaron walked to the door and slipped into his boots. “Be right back.” I quickly stood by the door so I could open it for him when he came back. When he did, I took the dress from his full arms. He was still holding the hatbox. “Yikes. It’s cold out.” He stomped his shoes.
“I’m dropping this on the couch for now. The hat and box are already in the back room.” I carried the Civil War dress into the living room and set it down. “Where’s the crinoline and pantaloons?”
“Still in the car. Be right back.”
“I’m going to take a closer look at the dress and hat,” I said.
I went to fetch the hat and box.
“How on earth could women wear these dad-blame-things?” Aaron asked when he returned again. “They should have been outlawed.” He looked around. “If that’s everything, I’m going to take a break and have my shower.”
“I think they were outlawed. Think of the bra burning in the sixties,” I called after him as he headed to the bathroom.
I hadn’t had much time to examine the two pieces. Opening the hatbox lid on the kitchen table, I stared again at the staircase drawing. I was convinced Mrs. Lincoln drew it, but for what purpose? Why would someone draw a staircase in a hatbox? Carefully, I ran my fingers around the inside of the lid. There were noticeable inconsistencies. The octagonal-shaped lid lip seemed right in measurement. But when studying the bottom, the depth of the platform seemed odd from the outside. I placed the hat inside the box. Next, I measured the approximate distance from the top to the bottom, inside and out. There was approximately a one-inch discrepancy, which meant that the box had a false bottom. I gently slid my fingers along the inner corners of the base. The corners seemed square and fit tight. I turned the box upside down and studied it. No particular marking caught my eye. However, the outside bottom platform fit flush across. That finding left me more than curious.
Word to Death Page 4
