Research Can Be Murder, page 5
“An acquaintance from New York Public Library,” I answered, smoothing my carefully selected soft gray skirt. It would have been embarrassing to divulge that I’d just accidentally met Geraldine, spending only a mere twenty minutes with her.
“Hmm,” she responded with a slight nod. Her squarish face loomed large, accentuated by dark, pulled-back hair, neatly arranged in a 1940s-style hair roll. Ms. Tipton, however, was somewhere in middle age, far from having lived in that era. She exuded the venerable maturity of my most intimidating grammar school teachers. I felt as if I was twelve years old again.
“Please tell me about your project and what you hope to discover here.”
Fortunately, I’d rehearsed this on my way to the appointment. “I want to find the identities of people mentioned in some diary pages that were among my family’s belongings and get background on their lives. There’s also some jewelry in this collection. It might possibly belong to the descendants of another family. If so, I’d like to return the pieces to the rightful heirs.” I took a deep breath.
If Ms. Tipton found any of this unusual, she didn’t show it.
“And what makes you think this jewelry didn’t belong to your own family?”
“Just that some of the written materials suggested they might have been given to someone in my family for safekeeping.” I hoped this sounded high-toned enough for the occasion. I couldn’t confess my worries that a theft, or possibly several thefts and related crimes, might be involved, even if they had taken place over a century ago. After all, I could be wrong. Once more I began to worry that this entire adventure was silly, a pathetic quest to fill my expansive free time.
There was a timid knock at the door.
“Yes?” called Ms. Tipton. A slender young man entered. His wrinkled tan shirt almost matched his light brown hair. Swallowing audibly, he handed a large, official-looking envelope to her, a corner of his shirt escaping from worn black jeans. “You asked me to bring this as soon as it came.” He gave me a sideways glance and nodded.
“Thank you, Baxter.” Ms. Tipton took the envelope and Baxter retreated through the doorway.
Ms. Tipton studied my face once again, as if the answers to additional questions might be etched there. Then she looked down at the envelope. An uncomfortable silence followed during which I studied the intricate pattern of scratches on her well-worn desktop. Somewhere in the room a clock ticked faintly. I was sure she was getting ready to have me escorted from the building. By this time, even to me, the explanation of my project seemed far-fetched. It wasn’t scholarly; it rather resembled the plot of some Grade B, late-night movie. Right at that moment, I vowed I’d get rid of the whole miserable pile of family hand-me-downs, just like Ralph did. I’d donate or throw it all away and go back to my classes and crosswords and make a real attempt at running. At the same time, I’d find a job, any job, all just so I’d be busy and come back to earth again.
Ms. Tipton adjusted her neat, but solid form into a more comfortable position. When she looked up and finally spoke, I stifled a gasp.
“All right. I’m quite sure you’ll find some helpful details in our collection.” She glanced down at the envelope and continued. Her voice was still serious but with a softer edge to it.
“We charge a fee of fifty dollars every six months for unlimited use of the archive. And you must sign this form.” She pushed a single sheet of paper across the desk in my direction. “By signing this, you swear that you will not deface or remove any of our materials.”
I nodded. “Yes, I understand.” Only fifty dollars? And a promise to behave like a decent person? Joe had been right. And now, I was actually getting permission to use the archive.
“Once we’ve completed this paperwork, you’re free to begin using our books and materials immediately during all of our regular hours. Our two research assistants, Meghan and Baxter, are here to help with your questions.”
She paused for a few seconds. A single ray of sun broke through the faded lace curtains. It illuminated a glass-enclosed bookcase nearby, an array of fingerprints outlined there in dusty relief.
Ms. Tipton continued. “There are study desks and tables interspersed throughout our premises for the use of all our researchers. The stacks are open as are the regular files. The specialized materials, such as rare diaries and documents, are available upon request. You must use these in the main room. Any questions?”
“No, thank you.” I had all but folded my hands and bowed my head in gratitude. That was all there was to the process?
I signed the paper with just my contact information, a few words about my research interests, and a promise that I wouldn’t harm anything. After I handed her my check for fifty dollars, Ms. Tipton gave me a printed list of rules and regulations. There was even a nice floor plan of the building attached. It all seemed so simple and so impossible at the same time.
“Meghan will take you on a brief tour now.” The young woman appeared at the door as if by magic.
Ms. Tipton stood and so did I. She formally shook my hand with a grip as firm and decisive as those eyebrows.
“Welcome to the Bauwers Archive.”
****
“C’mon. We’ll start downstairs and work our way up.” Meghan tucked a strand of shoulder-length auburn hair behind her ear. One of the two research assistants at the archive, she had a bright smile and a sweet face with deep bangs casually sweeping her forehead. None of this matched the air of authority she exuded.
I followed Meghan down the hallway, the hardwood floor creaking rhythmically under our feet as we walked past plain walls dotted with an occasional antique sconce. It was a challenge to keep up with Meghan’s swift, willowy moves, almost like those of a dancer. At the end of the hall, she opened a door leading to a steep flight of cement stairs. I gratefully noted the sturdy hand railings.
“We also have an elevator that goes to each level.” Meghan indicated a small door nearby, almost as an afterthought. Obviously, this detail was only for informational purposes since she was already leading the way down the dimly lit staircase.
At the bottom of the stairs, a compelling aroma of dust and mold greeted us. I was stunned at the sizeable space there, entirely crammed with books. They lined the walls and were tightly packed into a vast labyrinth of ceiling-high gray metal shelves.
“Voila! The open stacks.” Meghan laughed and waved her hand at the space in front of us. Then she pointed to a small study table with a gooseneck lamp on its surface—one of a number, she assured me, which were squirreled cozily into various random corners. “You’re always free to use these. Our researchers like the quiet down here.”
The desks in my immediate sightline were empty.
Meghan continued. “Believe it or not, you can find all the titles and authors in an old-fashioned card catalog. Been a while since you’ve seen one of those, right?”
“Right. But it’s sort of comforting.”
“Then this is your place. We have computer access, too, but most people seem to prefer the cards.” She gestured in the direction of the ceiling. “Everything’s upstairs by the main room. We keep cross-referenced cards for rare documents and photographs and even for non-print items stored in boxes, like commemorative thimbles and bronze plaques. There’s plenty there, and Miss Bauwers wanted all of it available.”
I was curious to know more about Miss Bauwers, the woman who founded the place. I didn’t have to wait long before Meghan launched into her commentary on the subject.
“There’s a display room on the second floor. Our little museum. There’s lots of artifacts there from the family and others. They were prominent in turn-of-the-century New York, and Miss Bauwers insisted on preserving details from this important time in the city’s history.”
I nodded. So far, I had learned all of this from Geraldine.
“She planned everything herself?”
“Yes, she was quite a force of nature.”
Another voice, a deeper one, suddenly joined in. “And a force with the finances to back it up.”
Meghan turned to face the speaker, responding with cautious formality. “Well, Mr. Renleigh. I didn’t realize you were here.”
A tall, nicely dressed man, especially for one rubbing shoulders with so many dusty books, appeared from behind a row of shelves. Mr. Renleigh was around my age with well-styled hair morphing gently from brown to gray. He had a handsome face, and his close-cropped beard was both distinguished and boyishly charming. With fluid elegance, he introduced himself.
“Please call me Alan.” He smiled, shook my hand, and held it longer than necessary. “And you are?”
“Emma Streyt.”
“Welcome, Emma.”
Meghan quickly jumped in. “Mr. Renleigh is one of our regular researchers. He’s studying special-interest organizations in New York at the turn of the century.”
Alan Renleigh’s face lit up. “I’ve been asked to write a series of articles on the subject.”
Was everyone researching and writing articles about some arcane subject? And where were they going to be published? Weren’t there fewer magazines now? Alan’s topic sure beat Geraldine’s horrifying flu epidemic, though. I supposed it was as good as any if a publication was willing to pay for it. Maybe if someone would pay me to write about family artifacts, I’d feel a little more confident about my project. But would anyone be interested?
“So, what research brings you here, Emma?” Alan seemed genuinely curious, so I gave him the little speech I’d rehearsed for Ms. Tipton.
“Wonderful,” he responded. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.” He glanced at Meghan, who was shuffling from one foot to the other, impatient to continue our tour.
“We need to get going,” she prompted with business-like efficiency.
“Emma,” continued Alan, seemingly loath to end our conversation, “I hope we can sit down sometime soon and compare notes on our research.”
“Okay,” I said, my face growing red at the marked attention from this attractive man.
“Till then.” He finished with a winning smile before vanishing into the stacks once more.
Meghan and I marched back up the cement steps and into the main research room, obviously a centerpiece of the building. Tall windows illuminated several long, polished wooden tables. Each had inviting leather chairs, now occupied by only a few researchers, heads bowed in close inspection of a book or manuscript.
I glanced quickly at these individuals. One woman carefully pored over photographs, gingerly holding them with white-gloved hands, a stark contrast to her drab olive sweater. She didn’t look up, nor did the older man with whiskers that lined only the sides of his face, or the younger woman with a magnifying glass who was scrutinizing an oversized manuscript with the intensity of Sherlock Holmes on the hunt for clues.
At the front of the room was an enormous oak desk where a semi-bald man appeared to be bent in deep concentration over a mass of books and papers. However, he frequently raised his eyelids a fraction above the black rims of his glasses, carefully observing the researchers so intent upon their work. We approached him quietly.
“Mr. Winthrop.” Meghan’s voice was a respectful whisper. “Our new researcher.”
He raised his small, portly frame from the chair to shake hands. I found it hard to take my eyes off his prominent burgundy bow tie.
The intimate atmosphere of the place was comforting in comparison to New York Public Library’s vast and confusing hive of activity. But shouldn’t there be more people here?
Next, Meghan led me into a plain kitchen with several small tables, reminiscent of those my grandmother once owned. A refrigerator, microwave, and efficiency sink completed the room. Meghan waved me toward one of the chairs. “Tea?” she asked.
I nodded. Meghan selected two packets and filled cardboard cups with hot water from a simple dispenser on the countertop. “Free tea and coffee,” she announced and then added, “not exactly gourmet, but it’s fresh.” As we dipped our tea bags in the water, I studied the room.
As an eating space, the room had a certain utilitarian charm. Its framed pictures of old New York added an appealing touch to the otherwise spare walls, especially the Currier and Ives reproduction of people enjoying a long-ago winter evening in Central Park.
My concentration on the picture was abruptly broken when a figure hurriedly swept into the room. She stopped and gasped audibly, seemingly startled to find anyone else here.
It was the woman from the research area with the drab sweater, now without white gloves, who’d been studying photographs with such intensity. She seemed frazzled.
“Oh…hello,” she began. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just need some water.”
With that, she bee-lined toward the sink and grabbed a small paper cup, filling it with tap water. Viewed from the back, her sweater seemed even more drab, oversized, and slightly misshapen. A wisp of salt-and-pepper hair escaped over her ear. She silently drained the cup and then turned to face us. Her plain oxford shoes squeaked against the floor’s smooth surface.
“Millicent,” began Meghan, trying her best to smile. “I’d like you to meet Emma. She’s a new researcher here. I’ve just been giving her the grand tour.”
Millicent approached the table. A pair of calm, intelligent brown eyes met mine. With unexpected poise, she extended her hand in formal greeting. Her clear gaze and solid handshake were at odds with her previous demeanor—that of a flustered, rabbit-like individual.
As she withdrew her hand, she must have noticed the slight wince of discomfort on my face at her more than firm handshake. “I’m so sorry,” she said, immediately looking down at her hand. “My ring must have slipped around by accident. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
I assured her I was fine and caught a quick glimpse of two round glittering stones, one red and one deep blue, set opposite each other in an unusual design. She made no move, though, to turn the ring back away from her palm. Then, in an instant, she returned to flustered mode, mumbling a “nice meeting you” and leaving as quickly as she arrived.
Meghan grinned. “Some of our researchers are quite dedicated, and slightly eccentric.”
I subtly checked the palm of my hand. It showed the diagonal imprint of the two stones from Millicent’s ring. “Quite some handshake,” I commented, rubbing my palm. We both laughed, and then Meghan returned to talking about the kitchen’s facilities.
“You’re welcome to bring your lunch and snacks and store them in the refrigerator. It pays to have lunch onsite if you’re going to spend the day. You’ve probably noticed there’s not much in the way of good eats anywhere really close by.”
She took a mouthful of tea and shifted uncomfortably. “Speaking of the area, I need to tell you that basically the neighborhood’s quiet, but okay.” She paused, considering her words carefully. “There were two muggings recently. But they were well after dark,” she added hastily. “I figure you should know. We don’t want to over-react, but we want everyone to be safe.”
“Thanks for telling me,” I responded. “I guess it’s good to be cautious anywhere.” It wasn’t hard to imagine a mugging given the desolate feel of the area, especially after dark.
She continued. “Both times it happened well after the archive was closed.”
Meghan looked at a framed map on the wall and then into her empty cup. I had a sense there was more she wanted to say. I waited, worried about what was coming next.
“The last time was more serious than a purse snatching.”
What did that mean? She seemed to be struggling to compose herself.
Meghan’s voice caught as she continued. “They never found the person who did it.”
“Oh,” was all I could manage. Was there more to this? Was it connected to the archive?
She avoided my eyes. “Just, please be careful,” she cautioned before quickly closing the subject and suggesting we continue our tour. But she never explained what “more serious” meant.
“Here’s where Baxter and I work.” Meghan quickly ushered me past a small, cluttered office with two desks liberally scattered with papers, mismatched bookcases, worn cabinets, and files everywhere. It was as if our previous conversation never happened.
“We’re both research assistants. We answer outside requests for information and, of course, we’re here for our researchers. You can come in anytime if you need help.” She indicated the office with a sweep of her hand. There sat the thin, earnest-looking young man who came into Ms. Tipton’s office earlier. He pressed a phone to his ear, running a free hand through his hair and then down to stroke his throat. Baxter waved, offering a distracted smile. Meghan and I waved back and returned to the hallway.
Meghan pointed to a small table and chair near the front door. “We have a college intern who sits here part of the time when she’s not helping with filing. When she or no one else is at the table, we try to remember to lock the door. Just ring the bell and someone will let you in.”
I asked Meghan about the cute little sitting room I noticed when I came in earlier.
“C’mon, I’ll show you,” she answered genially.
A Victorian sofa, several chairs, and a small writing desk filled this charming room. Sunshine poured through filmy curtains, saturating the colors of the rug with a soft brilliance.
“You can come here and read or go through your notes, especially if you’d like to breathe in some clear air after a few hours in the dusty stacks,” said Meghan. “Also, if someone’s going to meet you when you’re finished, they can wait here. Just let us know they’ll be coming.”
I immediately planned on asking Della to meet me here soon. She’d love it.
“One last thing.” Meghan indicated another flight of stairs. Unlike the steps down to the open stacks, these were wooden, their surface partially covered with tasteful carpeting. We began our climb to the second floor. I ran my fingers over the cool, lustrous wooden banister, admiring the elegant portraits that lined the left-hand wall on the way.
