Читать книгу Historically Dead - Greta McKennan - Страница 12

Chapter Four

I stared at the empty file folder. Last time I’d seen it, it was in a box in the library along with other files that Professor Burbridge had compiled. But it had been full to bursting then. I stirred the smoldering ashes in the metal bucket. It didn’t take a detective to deduce that the contents of Professor Burbridge’s file were right here in front of me. What I didn’t know was, why had someone burned them?

I looked all around the basement, but I didn’t see any other manila folders, either empty or full. The ashes in the bucket were so thoroughly burned that it was impossible to tell what had been written on them. I frowned at the folder in my hand, wondering if Randall was culling the professor’s files in this fashion. What right did he have to mess with the dead man’s research? I laid the folder on the dryer and searched for a sink to wash my hands before transferring the fabric into the dryer. I didn’t know if I was going to confront Randall or not, but I did want to peek into that file box once more and see if any other files were missing.

* * * *

The library’s open door invited me in. Randall was nowhere to be seen. He was probably at dinner with Fiona, turning up his nose at another beloved Laurel Springs restaurant. I slipped into the library and eased the door closed behind me. The stack of file boxes appeared to be untouched on the floor. I shifted the top two boxes to get to the bottom one, the one marked “Summer Term.” But that wasn’t right. That box had been on the top of the stack. Obviously Randall hadn’t put them back correctly. I checked the other two boxes. The “Library” box was on the top, and the box labeled “Major Samuel Compton” came second. I lifted off that lid and peered inside. There were only two files remaining: the ones labeled “Sources” and “Letters.” Wasn’t there something about a battle? I thumbed through the two file folders. “Sources” contained a pile of handwritten pages listing books, magazine articles, and various websites having to do with Major Compton. “Letters” contained just that: pages of photocopied letters written either to or by the major in flowing, old-fashioned handwriting. At the back of that file I found a sheaf of notebook paper covered with more modern, indecipherable handwriting. It looked to be an outline. I could just make out the title, “The Hero Exposed.” I was fanning through the pages, trying to make sense of the handwriting, when I heard a step just outside the door. I whirled around, clutching the pages behind my back, trying to think of some excuse as to why I was trespassing on Randall’s domain. But it wasn’t Randall who came through the door.

A tall, thin young man with an outdated haircut and black horn-rimmed glasses stood on the threshold and gazed at me. He wore a short-sleeved white dress shirt and khaki slacks with green tennis shoes and no socks. He looked too clean for one of Carl Harper’s construction crew, and too casually dressed to be a member of Randall’s law firm. I stared at him at a loss.

“You must be Mrs. Pritchard,” he said, entering the room and giving me a tentative smile. “I just needed to know where I could find some boxes or even plastic bags to pack up the professor’s things.”

For an instant I thought about impersonating the housekeeper, but then I thought better of it. As McCarthy pointed out to me once, “Unless there’s a good reason to lie, it’s always safest to tell the truth.”

“I’m not Mrs. Pritchard. I’m Daria Dembrowski, the seamstress.” I kept the professor’s papers concealed behind my back, trying to think of some convincing reason why I might be holding them. “Maybe I could help you find some boxes.”

The young man started shuffling through the piles of papers on the desk. “That would be great. I’m Noah. Noah Webster.” He shot me a glance, half-sheepish, half-defiant, clearly expecting me to comment on his name. After years of enduring chants of “Hairy Daria, Dumb Brewsky” in school, I had zero interest in ribbing anyone about a funny name. I settled for the mild query. “Are you a colleague of the professor’s?”

Noah smiled widely, in relief, no doubt. “I’m one of Burbridge’s grad students. Or was.” His face clouded. “I’m working on my PhD in history. Burbridge was my adviser. I don’t know what will happen to my chances, now that he’s dead.”

I bent over the Major Compton box and slipped the pages I held back into their place without him noticing. “This box seems to have a lot of room in it. Could you put some other things in here?”

Noah glanced at the box and nodded. “I suppose there’s no use in trying to preserve Burbridge’s system.” He flashed me that wide smile again. “He was an incredibly disorganized person. Veritably the absentminded professor, in fact.” He sat down heavily in the desk chair. “God, I’m going to miss him!”

I hovered by the file box, not quite sure what to say. I was touched by the young man’s expression of emotion. I hadn’t experienced Professor Burbridge as anything other than a bossy academic, so I appreciated the chance to see him in a new light.

“I didn’t really know him very well, but he was helpful to me by researching historical curtain styles.” I didn’t see the need to mention the fact that he’d insisted on doing the research for me and had spurned any suggestion that I could take responsibility for the curtain design myself. “You must have worked very closely with him in your PhD studies.”

Noah nodded, passed a hand over his face, and resumed sorting through the papers on the desk. “I’ve worked with him for six years now. I know, that’s a long time to be in school. I’m ABD by now, of course.” He looked at my blank face and kindly added, “All But Dissertation.” He sighed. “Who knows when I’ll finish now.”

I picked up the file box and moved it closer to the desk. “What’s your dissertation on, if I can ask?”

“I’ve been researching the Battle of Laurel Springs with Professor Burbridge, focusing on the nighttime events that led up to the decisive defeat of the British forces. I hope to write a narrative nonfiction account of the battle from the perspective of the D Company, the foot soldiers who discovered the ambushing troops before it was too late.” He gave me that tentative smile again. “You’re familiar with the details of the battle?”

“Sure, we learned about it in fifth grade, sixth grade, and every grade after that. Major Compton has more five-paragraph essays written about him than all other citizens of Laurel Springs combined.”

Noah laughed. “I’m only touching on him in my research, since I’m focusing on the foot soldiers. Burbridge was the source of cutting-edge research on the major.” He indicated the file box lid labeled “Major Samuel Compton.” “He’s got this explosive new theory that will shatter our understanding of the battle for all time. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.” He fell silent.

I tried to remember what I’d learned about the battle, which had taken place in the middle years of the Revolutionary War. British troops had surprised Major Compton’s forces at night by adopting the Continental Army’s tactic of concealment rather than marching openly to battle. Many Continental soldiers died, including the major, but the British were finally defeated and the town was saved. Major Samuel Compton was hailed as a hero, with his statue on the Commons as proof. “What was this new theory?”

“Well, well, what have we here?” Randall advanced into the room, a wide smile on his face. Bypassing me, he held out a hand to Noah. “Randall Flint, Esquire. You look like you’re on a mission.”

They shook hands. “I’m packing up Professor Burbridge’s things to take back to the university.” He glanced sidelong at me. “I’m Noah Webster, one of Burbridge’s grad students.”

“Noah Webster, as in the dictionary?” Randall chuckled. “For real? I’ll bet you get a lot of comments on that.”

Noah flinched, as if he were ducking a blow. “People don’t even use dictionaries anymore.”

A surge of anger shot through me at Randall’s insensitivity. I turned to Noah with a big smile. “I’d love to talk to you more about all this. Could we get together sometime?”

“Sure, you can catch me at the university,” Noah said. “I’m usually around the history department.” He gathered up the rest of the papers on the desk and shoved them into the half-empty file box. “I’ll just get out of your way here.” He hurried out the door, hugging the box to his chest.

I went to follow him out, but Randall blocked my way without actually touching me. “Do you have a minute for a little chat, Daria?”

I didn’t want to waste even one minute on Randall, but I could see that he wasn’t going to leave me alone until he had his chance to talk. “What is it?”

He took my hand and drew me far enough into the library so that he could close the door behind me.

I wiggled my fingers free from his grasp. “What do you want?”

“I have a proposition for you.” He smiled down at me, evidently sure that I would jump at anything he proposed. “I passed by the old house, and had a hankering to live there once more.”

My jaw dropped. Live in my house? The two unoccupied bedrooms on my second floor popped into my mind. Did Randall seriously think he was going to move in with us? Not in this lifetime!

Randall didn’t notice my shock. “I was wondering if you’ve ever thought about selling the old place.” He favored me with his most winning smile. “If you haven’t, maybe I could convince you to think about it now.”

I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. “You want to buy my house?”

“I do. I’m thinking of settling in Laurel Springs after the wedding. It would be a fine place to bring a new bride home to.”

I managed to refrain from either slapping him in the face or laughing myself silly. “The house isn’t for sale. Sorry.” I checked my watch. “I need to get back to my curtains.”

Randall opened the door to allow me to pass. “Just think about it.” He touched my shoulder lightly as I passed him. “I could make it worth your while.”

I hustled down to the basement to retrieve my fabric from the dryer. Just what was he suggesting to make it worth my while? He could surely afford to pay for the house, but it sounded like he had something else in mind. If he thought I was pining after our broken relationship, he needed to have his head examined. But it didn’t matter anyway. The last thing I would ever do was to sell my beloved house to Randall.

I checked the time and then pulled out my phone to call Pete. “Can you come pick me up at Compton Hall? It’s getting late for the bus.”

He groaned. “The ball game just came on. You’ll make me miss the first inning.”

“Listen to it on the radio.” I hung up before he could protest any more.

Pete texted me barely five minutes later, “Here.” I grabbed my shoulder bag and hurried down the stairs. I ran out to his truck idling on the front drive and hopped into the passenger seat.

“Thanks for the ride. I owe you.”

He grinned at me. “I’m keeping a tab.” On the radio the excited voice of the baseball announcer celebrated a double.

I looked out the window, noticing that Pete was driving along the river rather than heading straight home. A nice drive to take us to the end of the inning, I supposed. I leaned back in my seat and watched the mountain laurels flash by. Their pink-and-white blossoms were spent now, but the hardy green shrub that gave our town its name still dominated the roadsides here along the river. The sight relaxed me so that I jumped when Pete spoke.

“So I wanted to ask you, what do you think about Ruth Ellis?”

“That old witch? Every time she so much as looks at me, she criticizes me. She and her sister couldn’t be more different.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Pete glanced at me sideways. “She’s a shady character. You remember she was accused of killing her husband in that fire seven years ago?”

“I remember some scandal about her husband’s death, but not the details. What was the deal?”

“I looked it up last night when you told me about the professor’s death. The Ellis house in Philadelphia caught fire and burned to the ground with her husband inside. It was ruled arson. Everyone thought she had died in the fire as well, but it turned out that she had unexpectedly spent the night at a hotel outside the city. Well, that looked suspicious. It didn’t help her case when she said they’d had a fight and she couldn’t stand to sleep under the same roof as him.” He turned off the river road at last and headed toward home. “She hired an expensive law firm and ended up being exonerated for the crime. But they never did find out who set the fire.”

“That expensive law firm didn’t have Flint in its name, did it?”

Pete grimaced. “Actually, it did. Flint, Perkinson and Hubbard. Randall’s dad did most of the work on the case. I’m guessing that’s how Randall got connected with his current job at Compton Hall.” He pulled up in front of the house and shut off the car. “Sounds like the band’s all here.”

Indeed, the howling of the Twisted Armpits assailed us as we walked up the front sidewalk. It was a constant wonder to me that the neighbors didn’t call the police two or three times a week with noise complaints. Of course, they may have feared to tangle with the formidable Aileen.

I chuckled to myself as I walked up the steps to the porch. But the smile faded at the feel of a slimy crunch underfoot. I looked down and saw a mess of raw eggs splattered all over the porch.

“What the heck?” Pete said.

One well-placed egg dripped from the door handle, and a bunch of ants investigated a pile of smashed eggshells on the doorstep.

“Kids think they’re so cool,” Pete fumed.

“Maybe that’s the neighbors’ way of telling the band to settle down.” I pulled a tissue pack out of my purse and gingerly cleaned off the door handle.

“It’s not even late! They can just chill out.” He walked around the side of the house and dragged out the garden hose. “Go on in, I’ll clean up this mess.”

I didn’t argue.