Research Can Be Murder, page 6
“The Bauwers family,” commented Meghan, seeing my interest. Their faces seemed alive. The artist had been a master. I made a mental note to study each portrait at another time.
At the top of the stairs was a double wooden door. It was so grand and imposing that I almost didn’t notice several other closed doors off the hallway.
Meghan opened the big door, revealing a generous space with cream-colored walls and high windows dressed with sweeping crimson draperies. Old-fashioned museum cases were spread over the center of the room. Glass-enclosed cabinets lined the walls, and another small elevator door was tucked between two of them. A crystal chandelier twinkled gently overhead.
“This is our little museum. I’ll just show you a few highlights,” volunteered Meghan. “You’re free to come here any time and take a closer look.”
The cases were chock-full of items with neatly typed descriptions. The array was staggering—maps, beribboned medals, a chunk of an old building. All a mini-history in itself.
“Most of this, but not everything, dates from the 1890s to just before World War I,” explained Meghan. “There’s a lot of memorabilia from the Bauwers family and their close friends. You could literally spend days here and still not catch every detail.”
She smiled. “You have access to all of downstairs and to the museum room here, but nothing else on this floor or beyond. Our rarities are stored there and, also, Mr. Bauwers has his apartment upstairs. He’s the founder’s nephew.” She paused. “Don’t worry. It’s all on your building chart.”
“Thanks, Meghan. I think I’ll spend a little time here now with the exhibits. Then I’ll be back soon to officially start my research.” My research. The words alone were exciting.
Meghan smiled again. “That’s terrific. We’ll all look forward to seeing you.” She grasped my hand warmly and shook it in parting. Then she left me to my wanderings.
I leisurely browsed the cases at random, too excited to concentrate. I just wanted to graze through the displays now and get a sense of everything.
A dollhouse in one of the wall cabinets housed intricately carved furniture and exquisite figures of people. A silver service caught the light along with memorial tributes in softly tinted mattings. Several elegant books, frayed but reasonably well-preserved, drew my attention.
While I was deciphering book titles, a creaking sound startled me. A thin, bent man in a worn tweed jacket entered through the little elevator door. Shuffling in my direction, he nodded in a slow rhythm—whether voluntarily or not, I couldn’t say. The only sound was the tap of his cane on the hardwood floor. I spied the tufts of yellowing white hair hanging over each ear. Glasses with fine gold rims were perched on a hawk-like nose. He stared at me through thick lenses. When he spoke, the words were slow, the sound of a once regal voice now diminished.
“You are the new researcher,” he stated, rather than asked, his tone quite formal.
My voice caught before I could reply.
“I am Harlan Bauwers.”
Chapter Nine
Nestled in my seat on the train ride home that afternoon, I tried to concentrate on a crossword puzzle book I picked up in Grand Central. It was useless. I kept replaying the events of the day, right through my surprise meeting with the elderly Mr. Bauwers. He’d offered a monosyllabic “welcome” and a skeletal handshake before retracing his path to the small elevator door. Startled, both by his sudden appearance and his obvious frailty, I’d managed to eke out my name and a thank you. It had seemed enough.
When I got home, I called Della.
“So, how was your day at Chez Bauwers?” she asked.
“Weird, but good,” I answered. “It’s like going back in time.”
I filled Della in on everything. What continued to stand out in my mind, though, was the relative ease with which I’d been accepted as a researcher by the inscrutable Ms. Tipton as well as how few people seemed to be using the archive. Della didn’t find this strange at all.
“I’m sure they’re thrilled,” she commented, echoing what Joe, the maintenance guy, said during our chance meeting. “With people continually surfing the internet for everything, they’re probably happy that anyone wants to use a real archive. Your project is a genuine one, and Ms. Tipton can see you’re a responsible person. It’s all good, Em. Just go with the flow.”
Reassured, I continued sharing every detail I could remember, including Meaghan’s unsettling news about muggings in the area. What had she meant by the last one having been “more serious”? Complicated circumstances? A severe injury or…murder? No, not that.
“I think there was more she wanted to tell me about that second mugging but she was, I don’t know, holding something back or afraid to say anything else. She seemed upset.”
“Meghan might tell you more when she gets to know you better. The important thing is to please be careful, Em,” cautioned Della. “I hate to think they haven’t caught the person yet.”
“I’ll be careful, and I only plan to be there during the day anyway, so it should be all right,” I promised, quickly getting off the subject.
“So, what’s next?”
“I’m going back to start my real research. I can feel it, Dell. The answers to my questions are there. Besides, the archive is easier to navigate than New York Public Library.”
We signed off, and I headed for the kitchen just as the low rumble of a car engine sounded in the driveway. Obviously, Steve was home from the endless stream of clients and work. When he trudged into the room, I again noticed the dark circles underscoring his blue eyes.
“Chicken-avocado sandwich?” I offered, just starting to fix one for myself. Despite my worries about Steve, I felt calmer than I had in weeks. The side effects of my time with Ms. Tipton, Meghan, and the whole archive crew?
Steve looked at me somberly. “Okay. I’d like that.”
Wordlessly, I gestured to the table and began gathering the fixings for the sandwiches.
“Good day today?” Steve asked.
I spoke while slicing the avocado and arranging slices of chicken on thick multi-grain bread. “Very. I was accepted at the Bauwers Archive. Tomorrow, I start my research.” I placed two sandwich plates and side salads on our cheerful ivy-patterned placemats. “Would you like some wine?”
“That’d be nice.”
I decided to fill Steve in on my day, letting him relax first before asking him anything about work, a topic that seemed to be the catalyst for his fatigue and my frustration lately.
For a brief moment, the only sound was the faint ripple of chardonnay filling the slender wine glasses. It was comforting, almost like a small fountain trickling in a quiet garden. I brought the glasses to the table before speaking again.
“I really haven’t had a chance to fill you in. Long story, but someone at New York Public Library told me about a private archive downtown. It’s like walking back in time. Probably just what I need to solve the mystery of the diary and the jewelry.”
As he took a tentative bite of his sandwich, Steve raised an eyebrow in question. I picked up my glass and clinked it against his with a mysterious smile. Then I launched into my story.
“There was so much in those boxes and that trunk from Ralph,” I began. “But what I found most intriguing were some random papers that looked like they came out of a diary.” After a quick sip of wine, I continued. “The person who wrote those pages was in the middle of a lot of action. She was given something important to keep by somebody named Abigail.”
Completely swept up in my narrative now, I intermittently punctuated the air with my salad fork for additional emphasis as I spun my tale of stolen jewelry, tragedy, historic newspaper articles, and modern-day rightful heirs.
Steve finished the last of his sandwich. “How could you trace the jewelry and prove who it belonged to, though? And figure out if any type of crime was committed at all?”
“My research at the archive will give me more information to help figure this out. Wouldn’t you feel the same as I do if you were in my shoes?”
Steve looked perplexed. “I guess so, and there could be something to it. But, Emma, it was so long ago, and there are a lot of questions…”
“But,” I interrupted, “those newspaper articles that were circled and the jewelry itself really seem linked to the diary pages. I’m just investigating further.”
I had no idea of where I was going with this, but a newfound sense of purpose propelled me forward. I moved to the refrigerator and took out two small dishes of my chocolate studded vanilla mousse for dessert. Truthfully, I’d planned on eating both as a reward for getting through today. Now, I plopped a dish on each of our placemats.
“When there are more details and things get figured out,” I added quickly, “I want to write an article about the stories behind the diary and about my research.” When did I decide this? Was I already channeling Geraldine or even that guy Alan from the archive’s stacks?
Steve looked surprised. Not quite as surprised as I was myself.
“Sounds like a good idea.” He was trying to be supportive, but I could see he’d been distracted the whole time I’d been talking. Or maybe he was just being polite and thought my entire project was a wild and crazy goose chase.
“Okay,” he said, hesitating a moment before abruptly changing the subject. “Emma, we really have to talk. I know I’ve been working so late…”
“Yeah, you have been working late,” I interrupted unintentionally, my exasperation with this bubbling to the surface. “Can’t you hire more people to help?”
There was an awkward silence. I made no attempt to fill it.
“I’d like to, and I will,” he continued. “But there’s more to it than that.”
His serious expression made me stop short. Suddenly, our dessert was forgotten.
He readjusted his position in the chair. “I accidentally stumbled on something at work.”
I now ran my thumb over the little raised flower pattern on the handle of my dessert spoon. My enthusiasm of a few minutes ago settled into quiet anxiety.
Steve took a sip of his remaining wine. “It really started with a question from the accountant a couple of weeks ago. Then I started looking further. I almost thought I was imagining things but…”
This time, it was the doorbell that interrupted Steve.
We both jumped and looked at each other.
“Don’t answer it,” said Steve, closing his eyes as if in pain.
The bell rang again several times, more insistently. A loud pounding and a muffled shout followed.
We looked at each other again. Whoever was there was not going away.
“I’ll get it,” I said finally.
Reluctantly, I made my way to the front hall, hoping to quickly get rid of whoever was there. Steve was right behind me. When I opened the door, there was old Mrs. Ryan, our next-door neighbor. She looked totally bedraggled. Tears streamed down her face, spilling onto the collar of her worn brown raincoat. She clutched a red leather leash as if her life depended on it.
“It’s Chester…Chester ran away.” She choked out this news in the midst of a sob.
This wasn’t the first time that feisty Chester, an aging Yorkie mix, had slipped his leash to explore the greater outside world. Why did he have to choose tonight for a repeat adventure?
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Ryan.” For a fleeting moment, I almost forgot my frustration at this ill-timed interruption. She was totally distraught. It would have been heartless to do nothing.
Steve was already tossing on his windbreaker. “We’ll go look for him.”
“Thank…you.” Another sob punctuated her words. She clutched the leash even closer.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Ryan.” We were the only sympathetic neighbors she could turn to. “You stay on your front porch in case Chester comes back by himself. We’ll find him.”
I put my arm around the woman, leading her outside. “Steve and I will search for him. You stay by your door and be on the lookout.”
She nodded through her tears and walked back to her house.
The crisp fall evening had turned decidedly chilly, and I regretted running out the door without a jacket. I hugged my thin blue sweatshirt closer.
I soon shivered from the cold and frustration over the evening’s turn of events. But then I remembered Mrs. Ryan’s heartbreaking sobs. Chester was all she had.
Both Steve and I kept calling “Chester…here Chester” while rounding several corners past an array of Halloween decorations from grinning jack-o-lanterns to inflatable ghosts. We finally stopped in front of a charming colonial, its inviting front porch laden with strings of pumpkin lights. We’d been gone for about twenty minutes. Still, no Chester.
With hands on hips, Steve’s gaze continued taking in the surrounding lawns. “Let’s go back and see how Mrs. Ryan’s doing,” he finally suggested.
Now the only sound was the scrunch of newly fallen autumn leaves under foot. Finally, unable to contain myself any longer, I broke the silence. “What is it, Steve? What’s wrong?”
He took a long, deep breath. “It looks like Hank’s been taking money from the business.”
“What?” My exclamation punctured the chill night air.
“Emma, I want to be wrong, but everything’s pointing to this. That’s why I ran back to work the other night. The accountant had more details. He said he really needed to talk to me right then. I’ve hoped for some logical explanation for the discrepancies. But there just doesn’t seem to be any.”
I was stunned. “But why didn’t you say something to me before?”
Steve’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry, Emma. I was praying it might have just been a glitch in the books. I’ve spent the past few weeks going over everything, even trying to draw Hank out about client situations. We’ll be at the conference this week, and I’ll have to confront him.”
“But why, Steve? Why would he do this? The business is doing great, right? If Hank needed extra, why didn’t he just come to you and talk about it?”
“I don’t know. I need an explanation for the facts the accountant gave me. I can’t go over it anymore. It’s time to talk honestly with Hank. Maybe it’s all a mistake.”
I paused a moment. “But you don’t think so, do you?”
Steve looked away for a moment, then shook his head before answering.
“Truthfully, the facts don’t seem to lie. It’s not that the business itself is in trouble financially. We’re busier than ever. But if he’s doing something that’s…” He hesitated before continuing, “that’s not right, then there’s more than money at stake here, isn’t there?”
We arrived at our neighbor’s house just in time to spy Chester doing a ten-yard dash across the lawn into the waiting arms of Mrs. Ryan and the cluster of his favorite treats she’d been frantically waving into the cool night air. We approached the reunited duo, relieved.
I stopped for a minute before we reached the pair.
“But, Steve, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want to believe it. Because I felt terrible saying the words out loud. And, Emma, suppose I’m wrong? Suppose the accountant’s wrong?”
I looked at him sadly. “But suppose you’re both right?”
Chapter Ten
The next morning as I walked down the desolate street for my first full day at the archive, I tried hard to bury my emotions from the previous night. Angry at Hank, I concluded he must be guilty or else the accountant wouldn’t have so clearly called the discrepancies to light. And I was angry at Steve for not telling me about the situation sooner and, truthfully, for seeming to have more sorrow than rage over the whole thing.
By the time I marched up the archive’s chipped stone steps, I grabbed the brass doorknob and charged through the entrance with more force than necessary. The figure at the front table jumped in horrified surprise. It was Baxter, Meghan’s fellow research assistant, whom I’d seen briefly the day before.
“I’m so sorry,” I burst out. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” I paused to let him catch his breath. “Baxter? I’m Emma.”
I thrust out my hand in greeting. Baxter responded with a tepid shake.
“Nice meeting you. Meghan said you’d be starting your research today.” He ran his hand over his throat, just as he’d done when I’d seen him at his desk.
“I’m looking forward to beginning.” I smiled, hoping to set him at ease.
“Good. I guess you already know where to hang your coat.” He indicated the closet down the hall. “If there’s anything you need, just let me know.”
I thanked him, shed my coat, and went into the kitchen to put my name-labeled lunch bag in the refrigerator. It joined at least four others, also well-marked.
Next, I headed for the research room and its neat rows of card catalogs. The place was silent. Millicent closely studied her photographs. A drab brown sweater replaced the drab olive one of yesterday, her white gloves offering a stunning contrast and hiding her ring. Only three other people dotted the room, all studiously absorbed. I knew, though, that Mr. Winthrop at the main research desk was well aware of their every move, as well as mine.
I hurried to the card catalogs, thrilled to feel the tiny grains of its walnut surface and to fit my index finger into the little curved brass ring handles on the drawers. Inside was the once familiar sight of aging, beige-colored cards, their typewritten details faded with time and use.
For the next half hour, I copied down the titles of materials to check in the open stacks downstairs, a good place to begin. Maybe I’d request some rare items from Mr. Winthrop in the future. But now, I walked down the hallway toward the cement staircase to the basement.
Ms. Tipton appeared immediately, looking crisp and orderly in a navy-blue suit that fit her matronly figure remarkably well. Not one wisp of her 1940s hair roll moved out of place.
“Good morning, Emma. I’m glad to see you’re starting your research.”
