A Fatal Appraisal (19 page)

Several members of the
Hidden Treasures
crew quickly
took up Molly's cue and began ushering the people waiting in line within the
front hall outside, making sure that no Nosy Nellies slipped through the doors
while this mass exodus was taking place.

"Thanks, I got it from here," Crystal said,
suddenly appearing at Molly's side. "The cops are comin'."

"I'd better make sure no one else slipped by,"
Molly offered helpfully as she hustled off toward the Civil War exhibit. Her
motivation to see if the rumor about a dead body was true should have come from
a professional desire to investigate the scene as a first-rate reporter, but
Molly didn't give a moment’s thought to her job as she wondered what had
happened deeper inside the museum. Pure and simple curiosity propelled her
toward the dark-haired security guard who stood staring up at the dead body of
a woman strung up on a statue of the city's most beloved general.

"Alexandra," Molly whispered and stopped short at
the sight of the limp figure and the stream of copper hair that covered the
dead woman's face like an inert curtain. Molly put her hand over her mouth as
if to contain any sound that might bubble up uncontrollably through her throat
as she looked from Alexandra's drooping head, to Paolo's gaping mouth, to a
woman sitting cross-legged on the floor fondling a pile of yellow-brown and
black pottery shards nestled in her lap. The woman's long skirt had formed a
soft bowl for the pieces to sit in and the woman fingered them repeatedly as
she glanced up at Alexandra's body.

As Molly bent over her, asking if she was all right in a
soft whisper, the woman cried, "My Rookwood floor vase!" She held up
two shards with traces of floral decoration for Molly to see. "Ruined! And
it was signed, too! I saw ... I saw ... and it just slipped from my hands! Oh
... Lord ..."

"It's going to be all right," Molly said gently,
touching the sobbing woman on the shoulder. She then marched over and grabbed
Paolo roughly by the arm.

"Snap out of it, man!" she ordered. "Can't
you see this woman is in shock? Get her to the cafeteria and give her something
to drink. Crystal's called the police. They're on their way."

Paolo finally blinked as he looked away from Alexandra and
turned his wide brown eyes toward Molly. "Who are you?" he asked,
reality slowly setting in.

"I'm with the show," Molly snapped, brandishing
her badge. "Now get her out of here!" She pointed at the woman on the
floor.

"Nasturtiums," the woman was sobbing as she swayed
from side to side. "Van Briggle ... lost... my beautiful
nasturtiums..."

Paolo tenderly removed the shards from the woman's lap and
placed them in the overturned cardboard box near her feet. The woman watched
Paolo as he moved each piece of pottery as if he were transferring a baby bird
to a new nest. She seemed immensely comforted by his delicacy. Finally, she
allowed him to help her stand. She gathered the box in her arms and let herself
be steered away from the exhibit.

"I'll make sure no one else gets in," Molly
assured Paolo as she marveled at her own nerve. Who was she to be giving orders
to the security guard? Still, she believed he wasn't quite the man of action
one needed during an emergency.

Molly made a full circle of the room, but could see no
traces of evidence indicating how Alexandra had been hung from Lee's statue.
Aside from the presence of a dead body and Alexandra's discarded shoes and
Gucci purse, which was lodged between Lee's marble boots, nothing seemed out of
place around the exhibit. There were simply no telltale traces of the violent
act that had been committed in this space.

As Molly double-checked the display case filled with coins,
documents, and daguerreotypes, Jessica and Borris entered the exhibit area.

Jessica immediately shrieked and covered her eyes with her
hands. Borris turned toward Molly with a completely astonished expression
before enfolding Jessica in his arms. The other appraisers came running into
the room en masse. Yelps and shouts of surprise and dismay filled the air, but
everyone remained a careful distance from the corpse.

Time moved in a slow-motion crawl as Molly stared at the
other appraisers. A shiver ran down her spine as she realized that there was no
chance that Randy had killed Alexandra. Was someone else in this group a
murderer? She scanned the faces of Lindsey, Alicia, Tony, Victoria, Patrice,
Garrett, Jessica, and Borris, but they all registered only horror mixed with
pity over their coworker's gruesome ending.

Everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to break the
trance. As the minutes ticked by, a heavy feeling of unspoken accusations and
nervousness descended on the silent group.

Finally, Tony cleared his throat and said, "Guess she
talked shit about the wrong general last night." He tried to laugh, but
the sound came out as a strangled squeak and as the others glared at him in
disgust, he squatted down on the floor and put his head down in his arms.
"What is happening in this goddamn museum?" he asked in a muffled
plea. Alicia softly touched his mop of brown hair and he leaned against her leg
like a small child.

"Who could have done this to her?" Lindsey asked,
pulling a tissue out of her cavernous needlepoint handbag. "I wish we
could get her down. She looks awful up there."

"I'm going to be sick!" Jessica clamped her hand
over her mouth and ran off in the direction of the Ladies' Room.

Borris turned to follow, hesitated, and then looked in
silent appeal at Molly. She simply nodded and headed after Jessica, relieved to
be in motion and heading away from Alexandra's corpse.

As she headed for the restroom, a team of policemen jogged
down the hallway. Molly recognized the burly, redheaded figure of Officer
Combs.

"You again?" he asked, none too kindly. "I
don't like how bodies seem to pop up when you're around. Where are you rushing
off to?"

"Look." Molly's eyes narrowed. "
I
didn't find this body and I'm going to the bathroom to check on a friend of
mine. I think she's sick."

"Well, get her and go straight to the cafeteria. We'll
be questioning all of you antique freaks from there." Combs signaled at
one of his officers. "Make sure they go straight downstairs." He
uttered a tired sigh as he continued down the hallway. "Robeson's not
going to like this mess."

Molly threw Combs a look of malice, but he was already on
his way toward the Civil War exhibit and the group of stunned appraisers.

Quietly opening the bathroom door, Molly found Jessica
leaning over one of the sinks, splashing cold water on her face and into her
mouth. Tracks of black mascara ran down her cheeks and her face was covered
with red blotches. She glanced at Molly in the mirror but didn't speak.

"You okay?" Molly asked in a whisper. She felt
that there was something extremely fragile about Jessica in this moment.

Jessica mechanically patted her face dry with a paper towel
and then pressed her hands against her temples. "No," she replied so
softly, that if Molly had not seen her lips move in the minor, she would not
have know that the other woman had spoken at all. Jessica’s fingers were
trembling and she pressed them deeply into the paper towel.

"The police are here...." Molly faltered. She was
never good at comforting people and could never seem to find the right words to
say. "They'll make this right. There's a really good guy in charge of
this... tragedy. He won’t let it go unpunished."

Jessica turned away from the mirror and looked at Molly. Her
eyes were filled with despair. "You don't understand. I... I may have had
something to do with ... with Alexandra's death."

Molly froze. "What do you mean?"

Jessica reached for another paper towel and blew her nose
into it. "I can't talk about it. Not yet." She gazed at her
disheveled reflection in the mirror. "What will Borris think? Oh
god..."

Molly moved closer to her friend until she stood beside her.
In the mirror, her own reflection looked wide-eyed and pale. "Jessica, the
police are here. If you know anything, anything at all, you'd better tell them.
This Detective Robeson isn't one to jerk around. If you've got something to
hide, he's going to find out."

Jessica shook her head from side to side. "I know, I
know. Damn it!" she shouted, her voice banging off the tiles like a cannon
shot. "He'll never forgive me ... he'll never understand!"

"Who? Borris?" Molly asked. Then she grabbed
Jessica by the shoulders until the older woman looked up and faced herself
again in the mirror. "Listen, Borris loves you. If you love him, then tell
the truth."

"I will, I will!" Jessica promised. "But to
him first, before the police."

Molly hesitated. She dropped her hands from her friend's
shoulders and moved off to the side. "Do you want to try it out on me
first?" she asked as gently as she knew how.

Jessica threw her wad of paper towels in the trash and ran
her hands through her cropped white hair. "No, thanks. I
will
tell
Borris, though, as soon as we go. I promise you."

That would have to be enough, Molly thought. She noticed
that half of Jessica's damp paper towels had missed the trash bin.
Automatically reaching down to gather them up, she spied a small square of
white paper laying on the ground.

Picking it up, she unfolded it and saw a note that could
only have been scrawled to Alexandra.

A—

Meet me at the Civil War exhibit just after midnight.

I must see you.

I've wanted you, but I had to wait.

All will be made clear tonight.

Jessica sucked in a sharp breath as she looked at the note.
"I got one of those, too. Same handwriting."

 "Did yours say to show up here last night?" Molly
asked.

Jessica stared at the paper, her dark eyes opened wide in
disbelief. "No. I got mine weeks ago. It's from the same person, though. I
see that writing in my sleep."

"Who is it, Jessica? Tell me!” When her friend didn’t
answer, Molly’s voice turned harsh and demanding. “People are dying, Jessica!
Who is it?"

"I don't know exactly!" Jessica yelled
frantically. "I don't! Mine wasn't signed either!"

"What did it say?"

"I have to tell Borris first." Jessica abruptly
turned toward the door. "After that it doesn't matter who knows." And
she went out, her shoulders slumped in despair.

Molly put the note inside a paper towel and folded the towel
in half. She approached the policeman who’d been waiting outside the restroom
for her. She watched Jessica's small figure move down the hall and wondered
what on earth was happening to the appraiser.

"This was in the bathroom." Molly handed the cop
the paper towel. "There's a note inside. I believe it might be a piece of
evidence."

"Did you touch this?" the officer asked.

"Yes. I picked it up and read it I didn't know it was
important at the time."

"Okay," the officer said. "I'll give this to
Detective Robeson. Let's get you to the cafeteria now. And you'd better get
some coffee," he suggested kindly. "It's going to be a long
day."

~~~~~~~~~~

"They call themselves the 'Hazard Club' after the
dice game, but it seems clear that their name has a more dire meaning,"
Elspeth said and she stood up, leaning heavily against the slant-front desk for
support. "I will burn this letter, and then no one will know of the club's
wicked assignment or of my shame."

"No!" Thomas grabbed Elspeth's hand as she
reached out to release the parchment into the blazing hearth.

Elspeth's blue eyes grew round with surprise as she
watched Thomas's dirt-smudged hand close upon her own white-laced sleeve.
"Pardon me, miss, but if you burn that letter, the others in the Hazard
Club will not be revealed. We must let them believe their secret place is yet
undiscovered and then catch them in the act of... um, what is it they have
planned?"

"They plan to destroy the munitions factory,"
Elspeth said folding the parchment neatly into a small square once again.
"In two nights, on the full moon." Elspeth passed the document to
Thomas and he replaced it within the hollow niche in the slide support and then
pulled the writing lid back down. His hand lingered on the smooth, simple
finish of the black walnut and he was instantly comforted by its reliable
strength and durability.

"My father is just like this piece you made, Mr.
Fleming—full of secrets. And my own brother, my dear Charles! He has marched
north to join with General Washington and my father betrays him even now, as
Charles faces battle for the first time. Why he's barely more than a child, but
he ran off and enlisted before my father had a chance to talk sense into him.
Now I know why Father was so upset when he found out." She spoke the word
“father” as if it tasted foul to her tongue. "He wasn't concerned for his
son's welfare, but that his own child had chosen the wrong side!"

"I'm sorry, miss." Thomas searched for
something to say. "You can help your brother by protecting our weapons. I
know a few men who can be trusted through thick and thin. We shall stop the
plans of the Hazard Club, never fear."

"And what shall I do?" Elspeth asked angrily.
"Serve my father tea and cakes as if nothing has happened?"

"He must not know you have discovered his secret.
Your life could be in danger, miss—"

"—Elspeth, please. You and I are in this together
now." Elspeth managed an almost indiscernible smile.

"Thomas Fleming, at your service," he said with
an awkward bow. His game leg had long since robbed him of any hope of grandiose
gestures, but Elspeth was moved by his composure and felt assured that he was
the type of man who was exactly as he appeared: simple, loyal, and honorable.