A Rare Murder In Princeton (23 page)

“This is dynamite!” she said to George. “Guess how the Litzenburg treasure got to Edgehill Street! Vincent Lawrence mailed it home to his mother. And his mother was Jill Murray’s mother.”

George read the relevant letters. They agreed it was sensational.

“All that happened in 1945—that’s a long time ago,” said George.

“And it was twenty years ago that somebody—I guess it was Jill Murray—put the treasure in the box of old dresses,” said McLeod.

“It must have been Jill Murray,” said George. “I can’t think that somebody else would hide valuables in one of those boxes. It’s amazing if she did it, but even more unbelievable if somebody else did it. It’s lunchtime. Would you like a sandwich?”

“Sure,” said McLeod.

“What kind?”

“Anything.”

“Anything?”

“I’ll eat anything. I’m thinking.”

So she ate her peanut butter and jelly sandwich—George’s looked much more imposing, she noticed, but she didn’t care. She liked peanut butter. And she was indeed thinking.

“Dante Immordino put those boxes up on the rafters and he didn’t sound like it was fifty years ago, either,” she said when she had finished her sandwich. “We don’t know when she hid the treasure in the garage, and we don’t know why she did it. It wasn’t a very safe place, certainly. But somehow—thanks to Little Big’s indolence in not cleaning out the garage—it survived all these years.”

When George brought her an Eskimo Pie for dessert, she thanked him. “I love Eskimo Pies,” she said. “I didn’t know there were any in the freezer. So if the burglar was looking for the treasure, it was somebody that knew the treasure was here in the first place, right? Somebody in the family? At least, somebody who knew the family?”

“It would seem so,” said George.

“After he found out about the burglaries, Nick said he wanted to talk to Dante. I wonder if he did.”

“Ask him,” suggested George.

“I’d like to talk to Dante myself.”

“You should see him soon. There’s supposed to be heavy snow tomorrow. I’m going to the grocery store for more blizzard supplies. In fact, I think I’ll call Dante and book him in advance for shoveling when the snow’s over.”

“I’ll call him for you,” said McLeod. “And you can go to the grocery store.”

“I know you’re dying to talk to him. I’ll be off as soon as we make a list.”

The next few minutes were very pleasant, as they discussed what they’d eat if they were snowbound for a while.

“Remember the Friends’ dinner is tonight,” George said. “But what can we have tomorrow and Monday, if it really snows hard?”

When George left, McLeod called Dante. He said that sure he’d come around as soon as it stopped snowing. He had planned to do that anyway, it seemed.

“Dante,” she said, “do you remember those boxes we took out of the garage, the ones from the rafters? You said Mrs. Murray had asked you to put them up there.”

“Yes,” said Dante.

“Do you remember when you put them up there?”

“When I put them up there?” Dante said after a pause.

“That’s right. When did you put them up there?”

“Oh. It was before Mrs. Murray died.”

Duh, thought McLeod. She hadn’t thought Mrs. Murray had asked him to put the boxes up there after she died. “Can you remember how long before she died?” she asked.

“It wasn’t long,” said Dante. “It was the last thing I did for her.”

“Thanks, Dante,” said McLeod. “See you soon, I guess.”

 

“I WANT TO talk to Little Big Murray about all this and I want to talk to Chester about a couple of things,” McLeod told George when he got home from the grocery store.

“Be careful with Bigelow Murray,” said George. “After all, his mother was murdered. And let me make it clear, I don’t want to have either one of those people to dinner—a dinner invitation seems to be a key factor in your investigations.”

“That was not my intention,” said McLeod coldly. “It’s just that, you know, my mind is like a rat in a cage. It goes from the treasure-slash-burglary to the murder in the library and back and forth.”

“Think about food,” said George. “It’s more practical.”

“I think about food all the time. I think I’ll make that stew with chicken thighs for tomorrow night. It’s a sort of poor man’s coq au vin. And the recipe says to make it a day ahead and let it sit in the refrigerator. You got the thighs and the mushrooms and everything, didn’t you?”

“I did, but you don’t have to cook. I can do it.”

“No, I want to do it. I’ll take some to Chester when it’s done. I want to ask him some questions, and he’ll have the stew if he’s snowed in tomorrow,” said McLeod.

“You and Chester,” said George. “You two are practically an item.”

“Poor Chester. I feel sorry for him. But I’d better call him and see if he can use some food.”

When McLeod phoned Chester, he said he certainly could use some food, and she set to work in the kitchen. When the stew was ready, she told George she’d just walk over to Hibben Road with it.

“McLeod, it’s bitter cold outside,” said George.

“I need the exercise,” said McLeod. “I haven’t been out all day.”

“I never knew anybody whose curiosity was so great they’d walk a mile in the freezing cold to ask somebody some questions—and take them dinner besides.”

“Now you do,” said McLeod. “And it’s not a mile, even round trip. It’s not even a quarter of a mile to Hibben Road.” She put on her boots, heavy coat, hat, gloves, and scarf. She settled dishes in a big basket and set out.

Chester thanked her profusely for the food and emptied the basket so she could take it back. “Won’t you sit down a minute?” he said. “Rest up before you walk back.”

“How are things going?” she asked him as he brushed his hair out of his eyes and looked at her hopefully.

“About the same,” he said. “The police still suspect me of killing the man who was my benefactor and my boss and my friend.” He was clearly morose.

“Chester, help me find the real murderer and then nobody will suspect you anymore.”

Chester looked puzzled. “How can I help you? I’ll do anything I can to help find out who killed Mr. Sheridan, you know that.” He was more endearing than ever in his earnestness. “I really will. But how do you think you can find the murderer?”

“By talking to people. Asking questions.”

“You want me to talk to somebody? I wouldn’t know how to do that.”

“No, I want you to talk to me. You knew Philip Sheridan better than anyone else did. You must know some reason that someone had for killing him.”

“I don’t, not really,” said Chester. “I’ve told you that before.”

“Let me ask you about something then,” said McLeod. “It’s about Fanny Mobley.”

“Yes.” Chester grinned at her. “What about Miss Mobley?”

“There’s something about her that I wonder if Mr. Sheridan knew. First, somebody told me that Philip Sheridan disapproved of Fanny’s handling of certain manuscripts. Is that true?”

“In a way. You have to understand that Mr. Sheridan was a perfectionist, and he thought that everybody should be held to high standards. I think it may be putting it too strongly to say he disapproved of her methods for caring for manuscripts, but he did mention ways that she could improve. But he thought everybody could do better.”

“But he wasn’t critical of her to the extent that he was a threat to her? I mean, she wouldn’t have reason to kill him?” McLeod asked.

“McLeod, I don’t think anybody had a reason—a valid reason—to kill Mr. Sheridan.”

“I see your point. But the question is, would a person, a neurotic person, maybe think Philip Sheridan was a threat to him or her?”

“I guess the people in Rare Books are funny, aren’t they?” said Chester. “I know that. Not funny—neurotic. And Mr. Sheridan had his little quirks, too.”

“Speaking of quirks, did Philip Sheridan change his mind a lot?”

“As a matter of fact, he did.”

“Did it annoy anybody in Rare Books?”

“Not really. Not enough to murder him,” said Chester. “I just can’t see murder in the picture.”

“Chester, murder is in the picture, whether you can see it or not. You told me about some strain between Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Ledbetter. Have you thought what that was about?”

“I have, actually,” said Chester. “Because of some things that happened yesterday.”

“What happened yesterday?”

“I’d rather not say,” said Chester.

“Oh, come on,” said McLeod. “Tell me.”

“Well, Mr. Ledbetter was breaking some rules. I’m afraid you’ll hear about it next week.”

McLeod sighed. “Okay, but about Buster Keaton. Did Mr. Sheridan disapprove of him, too?”

“I’ve thought about this a lot since you asked me about all these people. By and large Mr. Sheridan thought Mr. Keaton was really good at his job. He admired his single-minded devotion to rare books. I think—I don’t know for sure—I couldn’t swear in court—but I think he had doubts about his—I don’t know—his personal life.”

“What about his personal life?”

“McLeod, I’d rather not say. Once you say something, it’s out there, like a solid substance.”

This was tough going; Chester was being downright obstructive. “One more question,” she said.

Chester waited.

“Back to Fanny Mobley. There’s one thing about her. I don’t know whether it’s true or not. Would it have annoyed Philip Sheridan so that he would be a threat to her?”

“What?” asked Chester.

“Alcohol.”

“Oh, that.” Chester actually laughed out loud. “Oh, yes, Mr. Sheridan knew about the way she drank. He thought it was amusing. Once in a while he’d have a little tipple with her in the afternoon. She doesn’t drink much, you know. Never in the morning and a bit for lunch and little bits along toward the end of the day.”

“Well, there goes my great motive for murder,” said McLeod. And she laughed along with Chester. “You see, I thought perhaps he had found her out and threatened to report her, or something. And she had killed him.”

“Oh, no, he wouldn’t report it. And anyway there isn’t anybody he could have reported it to. Mr. Ledbetter knows about it.”

“You’ve just eliminated Fanny as a suspect—at least in my mind,” said McLeod with a sigh of regret. “But can’t you think of somebody else who might have killed him?”

“No, I can’t,” Chester said. “I told you about the cross words between Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Ledbetter—I guess they were cross words. I can’t even remember anything anymore.”

“But you did tell the police about that little—little whatever it was?”

“Yes, I did. Nobody seemed to think it was important.”

McLeod had to leave it at that. She was, she thought as she walked home in the snow, more mystified than ever about the murder.

MCLEOD CAME DOWN the stairs as dressed up as it was possible for her to be when she was without her full wardrobe, which was 1,100 miles away. She wore her long black skirt and a new glittery pink sweater that she had bought at Talbot’s, hoping Dodo would think it was from some place much more exotic.

George was waiting in the hall, resplendent in black tie and dinner jacket. “Let’s get going,” he said. “The Friends’ dinner starts early—drinks at six o’clock, dinner at seven, and it’s after six now. You look very nice,” he added almost as an afterthought.

“So do you,” said McLeod. “I’ll hurry, but it takes me forever to put on all my wraps.” She began with her heavy coat, added gloves, muffler, and woolly hat. “Is it a cash bar?”

“Oh, no, drinks come with it. The Friends pride themselves on that.”

“Oh, is this what Dodo wanted Philip Sheridan to buy champagne for? I’m ready.”

“I guess this is the occasion.” George had slung on his black overcoat and the big wide-brimmed black hat that had enchanted her when they first met. “We’re off,” he said, offering his arm.

“To see the blizzard,” said McLeod.

“Hope we get home before it starts. Careful on the steps.”

 

“I CAN’T HELP but think there is a connection between the murder and the treasure,” McLeod said as they drove toward the Graduate College, where the Friends’ dinner was to be held. “I wish we knew why the treasure was in your garage. And who came after it?”

“Your friend the policeman pointed out the connection between the burglaries and the treasure,” said George. “But I don’t see a connection between the treasure, as we call it, and the murder of a big Princeton benefactor in the Rare Book Department of the library.”

“Rare books in both cases?” said McLeod.

“That’s true—rare books are involved in both cases. Hmmm. Well, here we are.”

They arrived at the Graduate College parking lot and hurried to Procter Hall. The dining hall was modeled on the medieval halls in the colleges at Cambridge, complete with high table, vaulted, timbered ceiling, and tall Gothic windows.