Research Can Be Murder, page 2
“So, what else is next?” asked Della.
“Ralph suggested calling Mom’s cousin Louise to see if she knows something about it.” I swept my hand across the room at the random piles of objects.
“Jeez! How old is she?”
“She was younger than a lot of the others. That would put her somewhere maybe in her late eighties. She might have plenty of stories to tell…or not… I guess it’s worth a try, but I feel weird picking up the phone and calling her out of nowhere about this.”
“Why don’t you just do it, Emma? Even if she doesn’t remember anything about family history, she’d probably be really happy to hear from you.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“So, what about Ralph? Doesn’t he know anything? Or maybe I shouldn’t bother to ask.”
Della knew how Ralph operated.
“Ha! Aside from dumping the boxes on my doorstep, his only contribution has been telling me to call Louise. Otherwise, he’s busy enjoying the retired life and chatting up his new neighbors, probably hoping to borrow their lawn chairs or beach umbrellas next summer.”
“Some things never change.”
We paused for a moment to contemplate Ralph.
Della broke the silence first. “It is intriguing. I could help you draft out some sort of summary that we could link to the diary pages. It might give you a talking point with Louise.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “We sure could. So, you’re in on this adventure with me?”
She didn’t even pause. “Yup. I’m way curious already.”
I stopped. “Thanks, Dell. I really appreciate this.”
“Not a problem,” she replied in her usual breezy fashion, adding a dazzling smile. “You’ve helped me out with a lot of stuff, too. Besides, I love those funky boots. That high-buttoned look could become a new craze. Maybe I can borrow them once in a while.”
“Of course, you can.”
We brainstormed for a bit, agreeing that the few dates on the pages matched the copyright years on the sheet music. “And probably the hats and boots and china were from around then from the looks of things,” added Della. “And we should look up when cravats were worn. Do people still say ‘cravat?’ ”
After Della left, the family room was quiet. I sat there for a while, gazing at my newly discovered items. I felt compelled to learn their stories. But the diary pages were what really grabbed my attention.
The last box and the trunk remained untouched. Dinner would have to come first.
I spent a few minutes neatening up before heading to the kitchen. As I walked past the hat pile, I couldn’t resist picking up the feathery blue one. Tentatively, I put it on, feeling foolish as I adjusted it at several different angles while checking myself in the mirror. It did emphasize my blue eyes and, yes, tilted to the right worked best. The hat seemed to erase some of the fatigue on my face, and my light brown hair—carelessly swept up to keep it out of the way—took on a softer look, even a bit old-fashioned like the hat itself. I smiled as I studied my reflection. Silly, I told myself seconds before the front door opened.
Steve. Maybe there was some chance of dinner together. My casserole just needed reheating, and a bottle of wine was in the refrigerator, the perfect companion to my garlicky chicken and rice. I carefully replaced the hat on the pile with just a fleeting backward glance.
“Steve?” I ran to the foyer in time to see my exhausted husband hanging his jacket on the coat rack. At first, he didn’t seem to register my presence. Finally, he spoke.
“Hi, Emma,” he said, a forlorn look etched on his face. “Long day.”
“You look tired. I’ll put the casserole in to heat, and we can have a nice glass of that lovely wine Leeann sent…You won’t believe what’s in those boxes. I can’t wait to tell you.”
“I’m so sorry, Emma. I should’ve called you. Hank and I grabbed a sandwich.” He tentatively reached for my hand. “Could we save the wine for a more relaxed night? I’m so tired. Maybe you can tell me about the boxes in the next couple of days. I just need some sleep now.”
“Get some rest. You look like you need it. Is everything okay?”
“It’s just busy.” He paused. “I really need to fill you in…soon.”
For a second, I thought he would begin now, but he pointed toward the stairs. “I just need to sack out for an 8:00 a.m. meeting tomorrow with a client. No rest for the weary,” he joked.
I headed for the kitchen to reheat the casserole for myself. When I sat down to eat, though, it seemed tasteless, despite its pungent garlic. I was sad that Steve was so wrung out. Were this many new clients worth it? And was Hank working just as hard? Was he all right? The last I heard, Hank’s wife was away helping her mother. We weren’t close, although we did see each other on rare occasion. But it had been a long time now, so it wouldn’t have been appropriate to get in touch.
After eating, I thought about doing a few crossword puzzles, but they were no match compared to the lure of that last box. So, I tackled it with a vengeance, scattering the jumbled contents. There was a strange mandolin-shaped instrument with no strings and several ornate hand mirrors. Old theater programs sent dust flying into the air. I picked up my pace.
Then my heart started to pound. Two familiar looking sheets of paper were lodged in a remote corner. The handwriting, with its elegant loops and neat script, was the same. I picked up the slightly crumpling pages and, trembling ever so slightly, began to read.
“I need you to keep this for me, just for a while.” Abigail pressed something hard into the palm of my hand. “And if anything happens to me,” she continued, “you must find its rightful owner and return it.” Something gleamed ever so slightly from under the edge of the cloth that covered it.
Again, Abigail. Who was she?
I turned to the next page. Same paper. Same handwriting.
Almost midnight.
These were the most brilliant lights I had ever seen. We were entering a new era. I could feel it, and I was a part of it. The excitement of the crowd was exhilarating. So many faces turned upward, almost as one. All of us part of such a historic moment.
Midnight when? Where?
I eyed the trunk. It was all that was left. I was eager to open it, too, but a deep weariness was now beginning to set in. I sat down and leaned over, putting my head down on a dusty bundle of fancy pillows…just for a moment…
When I woke up, it was long after 1:00 a.m. The trunk needed to wait until tomorrow. I trudged upstairs, climbing into bed next to a snoring Steve.
Chapter Three
The next morning, I was vaguely aware of Steve heading for the shower. He was long gone by the time I dragged myself into the kitchen to make coffee. I sadly contemplated our missed dinner together. Maybe Steve and Hank needed to take on a junior partner.
After coffee, a blueberry muffin, and a long, hot shower, I felt better. I pulled on jeans, my old floppy sweatshirt, and my orange running shoes and headed to the family room, another mug of coffee in hand. There I faced my number one priority: the trunk.
Coffee was not enough to meet the challenge. The clasps were stuck, and I tried forcing them open with a pair of salad tongs and a metal bottle opener from the kitchen. The tongs broke in half and the bottle opener bent, but the clasps remained intact. I tried kicking in a side panel. It looked flimsy. Looks are deceiving. I turned back to the clasps. Better than breaking a foot.
Off to the basement for an assortment of hammers and wrenches. Twenty minutes later, after considerable pounding and twisting, one of the clasps, then another, broke free. Next was the lid. Steadying myself with one foot against the wall, I lunged with all my strength. Gradually, it moved and, with one squealing creak, it loosened, hitting the floor with a resounding thud.
Dust scattered in a million directions, floating lazily in the rays of sun that shimmered through the windowpanes and blended with the unmistakable stench of mold. But it had been worth it. The trunk was open, and its generous interior was crammed full.
Staring in awe at my newly opened treasure chest, I dove into some of the items near the top. First, theater programs, exuding their nostalgic charm. Some titles were familiar, Victor Herbert’s The Red Mill among them. Others, like A Woman’s Struggle, had been lost to time. Next came the old magazines—Argosy, Munsey’s, Ladies’ Home Journal. Random items filled another layer with decorative fans and a lovely doll with a glittery jewel in her soft cloth hat.
But then I stroked the outside of a dusty velvet sack, its pliable black surface soft in my fingers. I held my breath as I opened it. A striking bracelet, a gem-studded U-shaped pin, a fine cameo brooch, and a jewel-encrusted creature of some sort spilled out. Then, wrapped in soft cloths, was a large pocket watch, forever stopped at four minutes past nine.
I carefully replaced the jewelry and set it aside, as much afraid of breaking the spell of discovery as I was of damaging any of these items.
Suddenly, the loud quack-quack of my cell phone made me jump. It was my brother.
“What’s up, Ralph?”
“Have you called Louise yet?”
“Actually, no. I was waiting until I opened everything so we’d have more to talk about. You wouldn’t believe the stuff that’s in here. Especially the trunk. I’m just clearing it out.”
“Great, great. Glad you’re having fun.” As always, Ralph was eager to get to the point. “So, listen, we were just unpacking more things, and I found a large catalog envelope with a bunch of papers and scraps with notes on them. Remind me to give it to you when we see each other. We sure don’t need more clutter. When I saw this stuff, I thought of you immediately.”
“Thanks, Ralph.” I think. “How’s the new place shaping up?”
“We love it!” Ralph took a deep breath. “Downsizing is the way to go. And speaking of going, I have to run. Sheila and I are picking up some things for an Autumn Leaves potluck at our community’s social center. It’s a pre-Halloween thing. Getting to be that season, you know.”
“I guess. Well, enjoy. And don’t eat too many treats, if that’s what they’re feeding you.”
He signed off with a wicked cackle.
Ralph’s call was a good reminder to get in touch with Louise. At the moment, though, I needed to finish picking my way through to the bottom of the trunk.
I grasped at some red ribbon neatly tied around a pile of yellowed, fragile newspapers. My eye caught a headline circled in faded ink, “The Successful Thief Asked to Please Call.”
Carefully untying the ribbon, I lifted the newspaper onto my lap and read the story of a man offering a reward to the thief who’d stolen his lion-head scarf pin. No questions asked. A treasured gift from his uncle, he just wanted it back. Interesting twist to this tale.
No harm in taking a look at one more newspaper before going back to the trunk. The next circled headline was tragic, “1,000 Lives May be Lost in Burning of the Excursion Boat Gen. Slocum.” A boat, hired to take a large group of women and children to a special church picnic event, caught fire in New York’s East River and sank. It was a heart-wrenching scenario.
My gaze wandered to the diary pages piled neatly on the table across the room. I thought of the entry about the woman sobbing over Greta and her two babies. They’d been on a boat. Although painful to contemplate, could they have been on this awful excursion? Surely this was just a coincidence of some sort. But then why had this headline been circled?
I picked up the next newspapers, some folded to inside pages. A variety of circled headlines ranged from “Held as River Pirates” to “Attend This Grand Opening Sale.” Issues from 1903 were interspersed with 1904 and 1906. I’d need to set aside some time to read through them. They were fascinating, and the circled articles made me even more curious—theft, social announcements, fires, elections…murder. It might be time to start some outside research to see what made those articles special.
Right now, though, I returned to the trunk’s large interior to pull out the final items before getting further sidetracked. There, I discovered a misshapen shawl, a book of poems dripping brittle pressed flowers, and more newspapers bundled in beautiful ribbons.
But what was next made my heart give one wild pound. More of the diary.
I held my breath and carefully leaned back onto a sofa pillow, gingerly holding the pages in my fingers. Afraid. Afraid of tearing them. Afraid of what I might discover. Some pages only showed smudged dates and random words. But then there was a page with an entry. I began reading slowly.
Abigail held out a lustrous black velvet bag. She grasped my hand and curled my fingers around the bag. Once again, she pleaded with me, just as before. “Please keep this safe. I need to sell them but…not yet… For my sister.” Without another word, she ran out the door.
The velvet pouch contained jewelry, as had the little piece of cloth she had already given me. First, a large gold pocket watch with initials engraved on its exterior. At the bottom was a pin in the shape of an animal’s head. It was studded with diamonds, as the large horseshoe-shaped stick pin had been, the piece I had already hidden for her.
I felt faint. Abigail was a thief. Or worse? Why was I helping her by hiding these pieces? The police would surely come for me now.
This time, the diarist was truly frightened for Abigail and, certainly, for herself.
I held my breath and re-read the page. When I finished, I stared at the table where I left the jewelry from the trunk. Could these pieces be the ones from Abigail?
Chapter Four
“This one’s for Pink Butterfly…and this one’s for Purple Butterfly.”
I held out two sparkly tee shirts with Joy’s and Julie’s names spelled out in their favorite color glitter. Della’s granddaughters squealed with delight and gave me big hugs. They put on their new shirts and danced around, twirling and jumping over some colorful toy blocks.
“You’re spoiling them,” Della said with an amused grin.
“Thank you, thank you, Aunt Emma,” they sang in chorus, continuing their dance.
“Okay, ladies,” Della called out. “It’s time for Animal Circus.”
“Yay!” The Butterflies jumped into their soft bean bag chairs near the television, ready for their favorite show. Then they grabbed the snacks Della set out for them. This would give us a half hour to sit nearby, sip our tea, and mull over new developments. It wasn’t a lot of time.
I took a deep breath. “I think the jewelry I found in the trunk was stolen.”
“What?”
I launched into a brief rundown of the jewelry and new diary pages I just discovered. Then I described the old newspapers with their circled headlines and articles.
“I’m worried that I’m holding onto stolen property. And that maybe something bad happened when it was stolen.”
Della looked at me thoughtfully. “What would it matter now? I doubt the cops will come after you,” she joked. “Those pieces must be more than a century old.”
I took a gulp of my tea and continued with conviction. “I know, but I want to return it…the jewelry…to them. I mean to the descendants of the real owners. You know, it looks like that’s what Abigail wanted. Well, at least that’s what she said with the first piece of jewelry. And then some poor ancestor of mine got involved unwittingly.” I was taking off like a runaway train now. “But I guess the problem is to figure out who Abigail was and exactly who each piece of jewelry belonged to. And what happened when it was stolen.”
“And if it was stolen,” Della added softly. “Em, the jewelry could have belonged to your family, fair and square. There might be more to the story. I mean it’s an understandable thought with the diary, the jewelry, and the newspapers. But you really don’t know anything for sure.”
I contemplated my orange sneakers for a minute, unwilling to admit that my theory might have a few holes. “I know, but it’s still pretty coincidental.”
“Right. But don’t you need something more to link it all together?” Della quickly glanced over at the girls. They clapped in time to a song about imaginary tigers. Joy was already out of her bean bag chair and dancing in a circle.
“Look.” I pulled out my list of newspaper headlines with an opposite column of topics from the diary. I pointed to the newspaper side. “Here’s one about ten burglaries in millionaires’ homes. There’s a lot about jewelry in that one.”
“But what does that prove?” asked Della over her shoulder, already taking Joy’s hand and bringing her back to the bean bag chair.
“I’m not sure,” I answered as Della quickly returned to the table. “But someone circled that headline. And the article mentions a pocket watch that was taken.”
She listened carefully. “Em, tons of men owned pocket watches back in those days.” We both glanced at the twins who clapped even louder. “And there’ve always been thieves.”
“Forget about thefts for a minute. What about the General Slocum disaster headline?”
“All right, please run that one by me again,” said Della.
“Back in 1904, an excursion boat left Manhattan on a large church outing. It caught fire and sank in the East River. More than a thousand people died, mostly women and children.” I paused. “So, remember the diary entry about Greta and her two children who were on a boat?”
“Sure,” Della answered as she shook her head at Julie who pointed to her empty snack wrapper. “The person who wrote the diary said her mother was sobbing over them.”
“I’m thinking this could be tied to the news article. Maybe Greta was on that boat.”
Della frowned, no doubt remembering her startled reaction when she’d first read that diary page. “Yeah. Except for one thing. How do you know for sure that Greta and her children were on that particular boat in 1904? Maybe they were on some other boat that sank the same year or even in 1900 or 1910 or something. Or maybe it could have been in another city.”
