A Rare Murder In Princeton (31 page)

She told him about her visit to Cowboy Tarleton the day before and her talks with Mary Murray and Amelia Keaton. It took some time for her to tell all the details. She had, in fact, finished a bowl of soup and a sandwich before she was through.

George immediately began to worry about the public relations problems for the university. “My God,” he said, “the Rare Books curator kills a big donor and another employee. It’s going to be a disaster.”

“At least you know about it before the press starts calling you,” said McLeod.

“What a day tomorrow’s going to be.”

“You can cope, George. You always do.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“But Buster may have killed somebody else, too.” McLeod thought that George might as well know it all.

“Who else did he kill?”

“Jill Murray, I think,” she said. “But I’m trying to figure that one out.”

“Why would he kill Jill Murray?”

“Jill was his wife’s aunt,” said McLeod.

“That’s not much of a motive,” said George. “You have to admit.”

“Ha, ha,” said McLeod. “As a matter of fact, my favorite in-law is my husband Holland’s Aunt Aggie. She’s hilarious. Anyway I have lots to tell you about the treasure.”

“About getting it back to Litzenburg?”

“I’m working on that, but listen to the rest, although this part is a little hazy. Vincent Lawrence sent the treasure home, his mother died, he died, and then I gather Jill Murray and Arthur Lawrence inherited the
Gospels.
I found something on the Internet about the Litzenburg treasure and it said a brother and sister in New Jersey had once tried to sell the
Gospels.
”

George was staring at her. “This all happened since I saw you last?”

“That’s right. And you know just before Jill Murray died—I asked Dante when it was—she put that carton of old dresses in the garage. I think she was trying to hide the
Gospels
where Arthur couldn’t find it. But isn’t it logical that Buster Keaton, who’s a nut about old books if there ever was one, knew about the
Gospels
and killed her in the process of trying to find it? He wanted it—either for himself or for the library.”

“You don’t know that for sure, though,” said George.

“No, but I’ll find out,” said McLeod, with more confidence than she felt.

They sat up quite late, discussing all the developments. Finally, when McLeod was falling asleep on the sofa, George said she really ought to be in bed.

“I know it.” She tried to get up and complained that she was very stiff. George helped her climb the stairs, and said if she wasn’t better in the morning, she’d have to go to the emergency room. “I’ll be all right,” she said.

 

THE NEXT MORNING George knocked on her door before he left for the office. “How are you?” he asked.

“Much better,” she said.

“You’ve got an awful bruise on your face.”

She got up and looked in the mirror. “It looks much worse than it feels,” she said.

“If you’re all right, I’m leaving,” George said. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

 

WHILE SHE WAS eating breakfast, Nick Perry called to tell her that Randall “Buster” Keaton had been formally charged with the murders of Philip Sheridan and Chester Holmes and was being held in Trenton, awaiting a bail hearing.

“Can you go out to dinner tonight?” Nick asked. “I can take a break for the first time in two weeks.”

“I’d love it,” said McLeod. “What time?”

“I’ll pick you up about seven. Is that all right?”

“Fine,” she said and hung up. She opened the front door, stuck her head out to get a feel for the weather, and couldn’t help but smile. It was definitely warmer and the snow was melting. Still she had to bundle up in coat, gloves, hat, and scarf before she could set out for her office.

On the way she had what she thought was a brilliant idea for her students when they finished their pieces on people in the arts. She would assign them to write a story about someone in Rare Books; they would learn what it was like to interview people under stress. They could talk in class beforehand about how you can be sensitive to the pressures people endure and still get information for an article.

At the office she found an e-mail from her son, Harry. His dissertation had been approved by his committee and he would defend it in April. Could she come up for the party afterward?

McLeod was astonished. Harry had done it. He had really finished his dissertation and won approval. Defense was a mere formality, she knew, where softball, even flattering questions would be asked. Harry would shine. Of course she could come for the party. Nothing on earth could stop her. She e-mailed her congratulations and acceptance. Now all he had to do was get a job.

She bundled up again and walked over to Rare Books to find out who was in charge now that Natty was forced into retirement and Buster Keaton was in jail. Molly Freeman, the receptionist, told her Fanny Mobley had been named acting director. Fanny came out to the reception area just then, and McLeod could see that she was still sober, but not as cross as she usually was at this time of day.

“McLeod, can we help you in any way?” Fanny asked her.

“Congratulations,” McLeod said. “I thought I’d drop by and see if Miss Swallow is here.”

“Let’s see,” said Fanny. “Yes, she’s signed in. Let me go get her, then you won’t have to sign in and take off your coat and put your bag in a locker.”

“Thanks very much,” McLeod said.

“A lot has happened, hasn’t it?” Miss Swallow said as soon as she appeared. They sat down in two of the stiff chairs. “I understand Buster Keaton has been arrested.”

“That’s right,” said McLeod, and told her about her adventure with Buster the night before.

“So that’s how you got that awful bruise.”

“It is. And Nick Perry called to say Buster has been charged with both murders. You know now that it’s over, I feel really sorry for Buster and for his wife. I was even thinking about going to see Amelia. Should I?”

“My dear, if the thought has occurred to you, you should go. It’s these unfulfilled impulses that we regret later.”

“You’re right. I’ll go home and make her a pound cake.”

“That’s right. And I’m nearly through here. I’ll finish up today, I’m sure. But we must get together later.”

“Indeed we must,” said McLeod.

SHE WHIPPED BY the grocery store and, afraid that George’s kitchen would not have a tube pan, went to the hardware store to buy one. When she got home, of course, she found a perfectly good tube pan. That was all right, she thought. Better to be safe than sorry. She made the pound cake and, as soon as it was done, wrapped it in plastic and took it to the Keaton house. Amelia, in sweatpants and an old sweater, her face ravaged, answered the door and stared blankly at McLeod.

“I’m so sorry about Buster,” said McLeod. “You must be terribly upset.” She handed her the pound cake. “It’s a wonderful pound cake recipe,” she added.

Amelia took it and stood stock-still, staring at McLeod.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry, and if there’s anything I can do, please let me know,” said McLeod.

“Come in,” said Amelia. “I’d like to talk to you.” She led her into the living room and put the pound cake on the coffee table. McLeod noticed that the narcissus, which had looked so healthy yesterday, was drooping. Were plants affected by cataclysmic events in the household?

“Would you like a piece of cake?” Amelia said.

“No, thanks. It’s for you.”

“Maybe I’ll feel like eating someday. Not right now, though.” She sat down in a chair and faced McLeod. “It’s good of you to bring cake after Buster hit you, or so I hear. Your face looks awful.”

“It looks worse than it feels. Clearly, Buster was not himself last night,” said McLeod, feeling that she was turning the other cheek until her neck hurt.

“He let himself get really carried away about that copy of the
Gospels,
” said Amelia. “I’m sorry.”

“Have you seen him since—?” McLeod asked her.

“Yes, I went down this morning. I talked to him through a glass window. The judge will set bail this afternoon—Cowboy says it will probably be quite high, so I’ve set the wheels in motion to raise some money. I think it will be all right.”

“Is Cowboy his lawyer?”

“Buster called him last night,” said Amelia, “but I gather he’s going to have to have somebody else. Cowboy went down last night but he said he has conflicts and said anyway he doesn’t think he could defend somebody charged with murder. He said Buster would have to get a criminal lawyer. I was surprised—I thought he took on anything. But of course, Buster must have the best defense.”

McLeod had to admire Amelia: She had just learned her husband was accused of murder and she was entertaining a visitor in her living room and talking about getting him the best defense. If you could do that, you were pretty tough.

“Are you all right? Do you have any family nearby? What about Buster’s family?”

“I have cousins and lots of friends here in Princeton,” Amelia said. “Buster’s parents are very old and live in Michigan. To tell you the truth, I haven’t told them yet. But I will. I haven’t told anybody, as a matter of fact. I guess everyone will know soon enough.”

“Yes, I’m afraid everyone will know,” said McLeod. “It will be in the papers. I was surprised the Trenton
Times
didn’t have anything about it this morning—but they will.”

“I guess so.”

“Can somebody stay with you, Amelia? Or can you stay with a relative or a friend?”

“I’ll see,” said Amelia. “Buster will be home soon, I’m sure. You’re very kind to think about me. I appreciate it.” She paused. “You’re kind of a part of this, though, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re the one who found those things from Germany, aren’t you? In the garage?”

“Well, yes, I am.”

“You see Dante told me about cleaning out Jill’s garage and said that you had taken a box of old dresses up to your room. I thought right away, that’s where Jill hid that stuff from Germany.” She stood up. “Would you like some coffee? I’ve had too much already today but I’m going to have another cup.”

McLeod stood up, too. “Let me help you,” she said. “I’d love a cup.” She would really rather have tea, but she was too interested in what Amelia might have to say to even bring it up. Coffee would be fine, she told herself.

“It’s all ready,” said Amelia, heading toward the kitchen. “I had just put on a fresh pot when you came. Sit back down.” She came back with a tray holding a pot of coffee and two cups and saucers. They sat down and Amelia poured the coffee.

“What made you think there was something hidden in that box of clothes?” asked McLeod. “I certainly had no idea when I had Dante bring the box upstairs.”

“You see, I knew about the things that Vincent got in Germany. Everybody in the family knew he’d found some valuable things. Me, Little Big, everybody. Buster, Mary Murray. Vincent said he’d found them in the gutter. I didn’t know he’d stolen them. I never dreamed of that. After Vincent died, my father talked about the stuff with me. He was, as you know, Jill’s brother, and since Vincent had no children, Jill and Arthur, my father, inherited everything. My father and Jill tried to sell the things, and they weren’t getting anywhere. The Germans were saying the things were stolen. So Jill said they should hold on to the things. But my father was desperate for money at one point and he tried to get Jill to divide up the stuff. But she wouldn’t do it. And she wouldn’t tell my father where it was. He told her it ought to be in the vault at the bank, but she just smiled and told him not to worry. It was all perfectly safe, she said.”

“That must have been maddening,” said McLeod.

“After Jill was killed, my father went through the house and couldn’t find a trace of the things from Germany. We all helped Little Big clean out the house when he finally sold it a few years ago. There was absolutely no trace of Vincent’s things. I can vouch for that. But we never thought about the garage. That seems like such a crazy place to hide anything. It wasn’t even locked.”

“I does seem crazy,” said McLeod. “But from all I’ve heard, Jill was not crazy.”

“No, she was smart,” said Amelia. “And blind selfish. Look, I feel better talking about this. I’m going to cut the pound cake. Would you like a piece?”

“Sure,” said McLeod, and waited while Amelia went to the kitchen and returned with a cake knife.

“This looks very good,” said Amelia. “It was so nice of you to make it and bring it over.” She put a slice of cake on McLeod’s saucer and one on her own.

They munched cake for a few seconds and McLeod felt extremely relieved that the cake had turned out so well.

Amelia finished her cake and licked her fingers. “As I was saying,” she said, “when Dante told me about those boxes out there on those rafters in the garage, I knew that was where Jill had hidden the things Vincent found. I’ll always wonder if some of it didn’t go to the dump in those other boxes.”