Research Can Be Murder, page 20
Now would be my first time back in the parlor since being interviewed there by Detective Reynolds. I tried my best to shake off the unhappy memories of that awful day. Hugging the book close, I settled into the antique sofa, taking a deep breath and glancing around the space for a moment. The room seemed unusually cool.
Then I noticed something on the floor by the window. A couple of pieces of broken glass shimmered against the richly designed rug. I walked over and drew back the long curtain. Sure enough, one of the large bottom windowpanes was broken, almost as if someone had thrown something at it. No wonder the room was cold.
So much for peace and quiet. I hurried down the hall to report this to Ms. Tipton. Luckily, I first spied Joe in the lunchroom, finishing up his sandwich.
“No rest for the weary,” I joked. “After lunch, you’ll probably want to take a look at the parlor. Appears like someone broke a window there.”
He looked up in surprise. “Jeez. It’s always something these days with the building.”
The floorboards creaked noisily under our feet as we walked down the hallway together. Joe began pondering out loud. “That sure would have taken some effort. Those windows are pretty high above ground level, and the fence is a deterrent. This was a perseverant criminal, if you ask me. Or else one with a pretty good pitching arm.”
“There’s only a little bit of glass there,” I explained, pointing to the pieces on the floor. “But enough of the windowpane is sure gone.”
Joe knelt down and examined the glass. “I’ll be right back, Emma. I’m going to take a look around outside.”
I watched from the companion window as Joe walked around the front of the building. He knelt down to check the ground there, too.
When he returned, he looked even more perplexed. “This is unusual, Emma. There’s more glass on the ground outside than in here. If someone tossed something from outside, more glass would be on the rug along with the object that was thrown.” He sighed. “But it looks like someone broke the window from the inside.”
“Why would anyone do that?” I asked. “It makes no sense.”
Joe’s face settled into a hard line. “A lot of things don’t make sense here these days.”
Ms. Tipton seemed to appear out of thin air in the doorway.
“The window is broken.” I felt the need to explain immediately, uncomfortable under her impenetrable gaze. She nodded silently.
“Thanks for pointing this out, Emma,” said Joe.
Then he looked up at Ms. Tipton. “I’d better get to work and repair this now. We do not want any open windows here.”
Not waiting to hear the rest of their conversation, I grabbed my book and retreated to a far corner of the research room to try and read. But my concentration was gone.
Something was definitely wrong.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“What is that thing?” Geraldine wedged into what was becoming a familiar secluded corner of Café Alabaster.
“It’s an ear,” I explained.
“Just what we don’t need.”
“As long as that mouth across the room isn’t attached to it,” I observed, indicating another disturbingly large wall sculpture.
“Okay, guys,” Meghan broke in, motioning as she set up a skype session on her laptop. Soon, Della appeared onscreen, ready to join us, almost as if she was there.
“Sorry,” I said. “The only thing you’re missing is the special Alabaster Latte.”
“And experiencing the décor in person,” chimed in Geraldine, rolling her eyes.
We toasted Della with our lattes while she shared her latest news about Morgan Tipton, Jr.’s death notice. We all spoke in hushed tones, even Della. We needn’t have worried. The place was empty except for our little group and the waitress.
“So, let’s piece together what we have,” said Geraldine after Della finished. She pulled a notebook and pen from her green tote bag and began writing on a blank page as she spoke. “Going back in time, there’s business partners Prescott Bauwers and Morgan Tipton, Sr. They split when Morgan did a shady deal behind Prescott’s back.”
Della chimed in next from the computer screen. “And their children, Lucretia Bauwers and Morgan Tipton, Jr., officially broke their engagement soon afterwards.”
Geraldine scribbled furiously in her notebook. “What comes next is sort of hazy. Lucretia and Junior didn’t really part. They only broke off their official engagement. Junior promised to come back after he made his fortune, or something like that.”
“Something like that.” Meghan smiled. “And then they planned to work together to enhance the cultural life of the city they loved. Possibly start the archive? Or maybe a huge historical society and museum. Who knows?”
“So, they were just biding time,” I added. “And meanwhile, Elizabeth Bauwers somehow got her father and Morgan Tipton, Sr., to at least shake hands…”
“…maybe thinking this would lead to Lucretia and Junior officially getting back together,” broke in Geraldine.
The waitress interrupted with our next round of lattes.
“Sorry, Dell. We promise to bring you here soon,” I told my friend. “You’ll have to give one of these a try.”
“I’ll hold you to that promise. They look good.” Della nodded, her feathery earrings swaying with her.
“They probably melted down one of their wall sculptures to make them,” joked Geraldine, taking a sip and frowning once more at the oversized ear.
It was Meghan who brought us back on track. “Judging by some letters I found this week from Elizabeth Bauwers, it seems that Lucretia and Junior had a child together. This supports some of the genealogical details you found, Geraldine.”
“And it would explain the long trip to Europe,” concluded Geraldine.
“Now, the question is: did Junior know about this?” I asked.
“Here’s a possible scenario.” Geraldine was enjoying every moment of the speculation involved. “Junior went off to seek his fortune, oblivious to the fact that Lucretia was having his baby. Lucretia returned to New York from a tour abroad, and the family concocted some story about taking in the child of a distant relative who died. The sisters, and I guess Prescott, raised the child with the last name of Bauwers.”
“And Junior,” said Della, “died in that shipwreck and never had a chance to make his fortune, come home, and discover he had a son.”
“So far, it makes sense,” said Meghan. “Of course, at some point, the child must have learned of his heritage. His name was just plain old Harlan Bauwers,” she added. “Harlan was a family name from poor Mrs. Bauwers, Prescott’s wife, who died young. And that would explain why there’s no portrait of her.”
“It gets confusing when everyone is named after everyone else,” I commented.
“Until,” interrupted Geraldine, “the original Harlan married and had a son himself. And that son would be our Harlan. And because of the family circumstances—which, most likely, were revealed at some point in time—he got the middle name of Tipton.”
“Fine,” said Della. “But it still leaves us with the mystery of solving Millicent’s murder.”
Our group contemplated this for a couple of minutes while staring at the alabaster sculptures in the light of flickering candles on the tables. We had become so wrapped up in the history of the Bauwers and Tipton families that we almost lost sight of the present day murder.
“The archive property will be sold, and the Bauwers and Tipton heirs will inherit. But there aren’t a lot of them and it would seem that the sale will bring a lot of money.” Meghan spoke as if she was thinking out loud.
“Harlan may not live much longer. His son, the lawyer, is doing well financially and doesn’t seem interested in the archive. We don’t even know for sure if Millicent was going to get anything beyond that ring because she wasn’t a blood relative.” Geraldine sighed. “And depending on how, or if, Ms. Tipton is related, she could either get a big chunk of cash or nothing.”
“Then who would gain the most from murdering Millicent?” Meghan asked. “I mean maybe it’s not about money. Maybe for Ms. Tipton, it’s about settling some old scores, like the identity of Lucretia and Junior’s child as a Tipton being shrouded in secrecy for so many years.”
“But why would she care?” asked Della. “That was so long ago, and we haven’t been able to figure out how she was related to them anyway. And why Millicent?”
We pondered this for a moment.
“Suppose there’s someone else who’s connected to the family?” continued Della.
“You mean at the archive? Someone like Millicent whose name isn’t the same but is related somehow?” asked Meghan. “Then it could be anyone.”
Suddenly, Geraldine shook her head and looked up. “And suppose there’s something else we haven’t figured out? Suppose there’s another reason entirely for Millicent’s murder?”
Total silence descended on our group after this last question.
Finally, I spoke. “Then all of us could be in danger.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Just how many batches of these cookies are you planning to make?” Della cast a quizzical look at the generous stack of rectangular containers lining my kitchen countertop.
“A lot.” I grinned. “Ralph said there’d be over two dozen people at the party.”
“Really?” said Della. “But isn’t the party just for Ralph’s immediate neighbors and us?”
“Yeah, but you know Ralph. There’s always a few extras. He likes to party, and it adds up.” I pointed to the pile of cookie containers with a shrug.
It was pumpkin cookie baking night. Since Ralph’s party was in three days, Della and I decided to team up and make sure there would be plenty of cookies for everyone. Our own little group of costumed partygoers had grown. Steve and I would be joined by Della and Joe. And Louise was more than thrilled to be going, too. It all added up to a lot of cookies. Of course, that was provided people had room to eat them after diving into the appetizers, six-foot heroes, salads, chips, and whatever other dessert confections there would be. I also bought little Halloween bags in case people wanted to bring some cookies home with them.
“By the way, I’m planning an extra special batch for the Butterflies.”
“Thanks, Emma. They’ll love them! But you realize,” she cautioned, “that once the girls taste these cookies, they’ll want you to teach them how to bake some.”
“We can do that. There’s still a little time left before Halloween.”
“Butterflies in the kitchen baking? You have no idea what you’re in for.” Della burst out laughing.
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t resist laughing, too. The Butterflies were a handful.
“Okay, Dell. I guess we better get this first batch going. Why don’t you mix the sugar and butter in that big bowl over there, and I’ll do the pumpkin and eggs… Or, wait. Maybe I got it wrong. I better check the recipe and be sure. It’s been a long time since I’ve made these cookies.” I grabbed the worn recipe card.
Della grabbed a sturdy yellow bowl. She clutched it to her full-length apron, emblazoned with a whimsical design and the words “Cooks like it hot.”
I checked the recipe card, made a couple of adjustments, and the two of us began.
Despite my annoyance with Ralph’s continual reminders about the pumpkin cookies, I really did enjoy baking them and was pleased he’d asked me to contribute some to party night. It was going to be fun—everyone in costume, decorations a la Ralph, and plenty of food.
“So, we’re still nowhere closer to finding our murderer, are we?” asked Della with a shake of her pale blue feathery earrings.
“I don’t know.” I grabbed a couple of eggs. “When the four of us put together all of the facts, it seemed even more confusing.” I made a face, waving my bakery whisk at the same time and splashing pumpkin batter all over myself.
“Are you wanting to become a pumpkin cookie, Emma?” asked Della, handing me a paper towel to wipe the mess off my sweatshirt.
“Very funny.” I dabbed at my shirt and continued with my speculations about the murder. “This still begs the question of who had the most to gain by Millicent’s death. Nothing adds up. And what was Millicent researching anyway?”
“I don’t know, but I have a feeling Geraldine was right. We might all be looking at the wrong motive.” Della stopped mixing and looked at me.
“Yeah, I know. No matter how you scramble the possibilities, it still doesn’t make sense,” I concluded. “Who and why?”
“Emma, I sort of hate to say this, but did you ever think that the cops just might have been right? After all, the neighborhood is pretty desolate and it’s obviously in transition. Besides, you’ll have to admit that Ms. Tipton doesn’t seem the type to knock off someone in the style of a petty criminal. She strikes me as more of a poison or pearl-handled derringer type. You know, something a little more refined. Maybe it really was a random crime, and maybe we’re all cooking up this conspiracy theory and just spinning our wheels. And it could be coincidental that it happened just when the archive could possibly fold. After all, it doesn’t seem as if they’re turning away crowds at the door.”
I plunged my whisk into the bowl in frustration. “I know. You’re right. It’s just that my instinct tells me there’s more to it than that.”
Quack-quack. Guess who?
I wiped my hands on my already stained sweatshirt and answered my cell phone.
“Hi, Ralph.” Who else? “I’m putting you on speaker phone. Della’s here, and we’re making the pumpkin cookies.”
“Excellent!”
“Hi, Ralph,” chimed in Della.
“Hey, Della. It’ll be good to see you. Can’t wait to meet this new guy of yours.”
“You’ll love him,” said Della enthusiastically. “And he’ll be there in full costume.”
“What’s doing, Ralph?” I asked. “And don’t worry. Steve and I will drop off enough folding chairs and small tables tomorrow night. And remember, no stealing any of the pumpkin cookies before Sunday.”
“I’m shocked you’d even think I’d do that,” said Ralph in mock horror. “Anyway, I just wanted to check in and ask if all of you want to come over a little earlier on Sunday, maybe around 3:00 or so, before the neighbors arrive and the party really gets going. Then you can get the latest grand tour of the whole property, and we can spend some time getting to know Joe. Louise insisted on taking her car service over. I invited her driver to join us and come in costume, too.”
“Sounds good, Ralph. Della? Okay for you and Joe?”
“I’m sure that’ll be just fine.”
“Great!” Ralph was childlike in his excitement. “And don’t tell me what costumes you’ve planned. I want it to be a surprise.”
“Trust me, there’ll be lots of surprises! Bye, Ralph.”
Della and I went back to our cookie project after Ralph signed off.
“This will really be fun,” said Della. “Joe’s going to enjoy it a lot, too.”
“It’s really going well, isn’t it?”
Della looked at me, her face lighting up. “Yeah, it is. And I can’t thank you enough for being the one to introduce us.”
“I’m so glad it’s working out.” I flashed my brightest smile. For Della’s sake, please let Joe really be as honest and nice as he seems.
Steve poked his head in the kitchen. “Pumpkin cookies, right?”
“Yes, and no pilfering is allowed!”
I seemed to be delivering this speech pretty frequently tonight.
Steve was, no doubt, delighted that Della and I were busy with pumpkin cookies here and not digging up clues to murder. I let him believe that baking was our sole preoccupation now.
I continued scanning the ingredients and directions for making the cookies. It had been quite a while since the last time and I’d forgotten some of it, despite the fact that Ralph referred to them as “Emma’s famous pumpkin cookies.”
“Uh-oh,” I said, holding up a small bag. “It looks like I should have bought more candy corn for the faces. I think I picked up lots of bags of chocolate morsels by accident instead.” The pumpkin cookies needed a little frosting and happy faces. And Ralph specifically asked for cookies with faces.
“Look,” suggested Della. “Why don’t we just use the candy corn faces for the cookies you’re giving to the Butterflies. Then we’ll use all of those chocolate morsels for the party batches. You sure bought a lot of them. It’s just a little substitution, and no one will really know that chocolate morsels aren’t in the original recipe.”
“Good idea,” I agreed.
“Unless,” asked Della, “will Ralph know?”
“As long as he gets cookies with faces, he’ll be happy.”
A few hours later, the cookies were done, packaged, and ready for party day.
“Thanks so much, Dell,” I said, giving her a hug along with a big container of the cookies with the candy corn faces. “And please tell the Butterflies that we’ll show them how to make these any time they want.”
“Will do. I guarantee they’ll take you up on that offer. See you Sunday!”
I spent a few minutes putting away a couple of things but then decided it was time to sleep. Tomorrow would be a full day at the archive. Later on, Steve and I would deliver the cookies, chairs, and little folding tables to Ralph and Sheila, and we’d help decorate a bit. I’d save Saturday for finishing up my costume. Then all would be set for the party on Sunday.
Steve was asleep. I climbed into bed, but just couldn’t settle down. I kept running things over in my mind—the archive, Millicent, Ms. Tipton, cookies, Joe, costumes, Baxter, Alan, decorations, Meghan, Halloween, Butterflies…Soon, they all blended into a pleasant haze, and I started drifting off to sleep. It was like a crossword puzzle filled with silly clues.
