A Rare Murder In Princeton (8 page)

“The lieutenant asked Mr. Ledbetter where he could interview people, and Mr. Ledbetter told him he could use the conference room,” Molly said. “Those other policemen are doing the crime-scene work. Just like on television.”

Natty was standing with Perry and a very young, blond man in the door to the conference room, which was oddly located with windows in the interior walls so that people in the work area could watch what was happening inside it. Lieutenant Perry was frowning at the windows, but Natty pointed out that people outside couldn’t hear what was going on. “We’ll find another place if this one doesn’t work,” he said.

“This is fine,” said Perry. “We’ll get started in here. I’d like to talk to you, Ms. Dulaney first, and then to you”—he pointed at Molly—“and you”—pointing at Natty, “and then to everybody else who was at work here yesterday afternoon or this morning. Come along, Ms. Dulaney.”

McLeod followed him into the conference room. Perry looked good, she thought, balder than ever and just as blue-eyed and cheerful.

“MacLeod, this is Sergeant Popper,” he said, nodding to the blond young man. “Sergeant, this is McLeod Dulaney, whom I’ve known for some time. She teaches writing here—I presume you’re here for another one-semester gig, McLeod.”

“That’s right,” she said.

“We’ll tape this interview, as usual, but I will also take notes. Sergeant, you can take notes, too. It’s good practice.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant.

“All right. Now, McLeod, just for the record, give us your full name.” He waited for her answer. “Your home address. Your local address. Phone number. Now, McLeod, what were you doing here? And how did you find the body?”

McLeod told him about Henry van Dyke and his papers and her custom of stopping to look at Jonathan Belcher’s office desk and globe and books whenever she came to Rare Books.

“What time did you get here this morning?” Perry asked her.

“It must have been a few minutes after nine,” she said.

“And the rest of the staff was all here?”

“I assume so. Rare Books opens to the public at nine and everybody who works here gets in between eight-thirty and nine. They were all here, I think, when we went into Belcher’s office.”

“And nobody noticed a body lying there in that exhibit, or whatever it is?” Perry asked. “Nobody else?”

“I don’t know why I always stopped and looked at it,” said McLeod. “I don’t think anybody else does. I mean anybody connected with the university. The stray tourist who wanders into the gallery might look at it. But nobody on the staff ever does.”

“Does anybody ever go inside that space?”

“I don’t know—oh, yes, once I asked if anybody ever went in there, and it seems that once in a great while a researcher will actually want to see one of the books that belonged to Belcher. Nick, it really is amazing the research that goes on around here. A page or a curator would go in to get the book the researcher needed. That’s the only time anybody ever went in, so I guess it was a good place to hide a body, a place that nobody ever looks.”

Nick harrumped. “I never heard of hiding a body in a glass case in a gallery,” he said. “Oh, well. And the deceased is Philip Sheridan. Did you know him?”

“Yes, I did. Very slightly.”

“How slightly?”

“I talked to him twice. Exactly twice, I think. Once was when he showed me a Trollope manuscript and the other was when he gave me a Trollope first edition.”

“Gave you a Trollope first edition?”

McLeod obligingly described the occasion, and added, “You know he was a very nice man.”

“Tell me everything you know about him,” said Nick.

“The others can tell you a great deal more about him. All I know is what Natty Ledbetter, the director, told me. Philip Sheridan was a very rich book collector. He went to Princeton University and lived in the town of Princeton. He paid to have his collection installed here and paid for a curator. Natty told me he had left his collection to Princeton in his will. That’s all I know about him.”

“Okay. Do you know of anybody who might have wanted to kill him?”

“I can’t imagine,” McLeod said.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Last week, I guess, when he gave me the first edition.”

“You did not see him yesterday?”

“I wasn’t in Rare Books on Monday or Tuesday.”

“Well, you can go now. Sergeant, go ask Molly Freeman to come in.”

Sergeant Popper got up and McLeod lingered as he left. “It’s good to see you again, Lieutenant,” she said.

“It’s good to see you. I’ll talk to you again, I’m sure. And McLeod”—he smiled like a man making a familiar old joke—“don’t leave town.”

As she left the conference room, the sergeant and Natty were arriving.

WHEN MCLEOD CAME out of the conference room, she found everyone but Buster, Fanny, and Chester gathered in the reception area. Even Dodo Westcott, resplendent in a cherry-colored suit, was sitting in a chair by Molly’s desk. The double doors to the outside—the gallery—were still firmly shut.

“Rare Books is closed?” asked McLeod. “I knew nobody was supposed to leave, but nobody can come in either?”

“Oh, we had to close,” said Molly. “Obviously, we can’t have researchers in here at a time like this.” She spoke as though any fool ought to know this. “Of course, we let the police in—and there must have been a thousand of them. And President Blackman came over—he and that cute George Bridges, the vice president for public affairs.”

Molly seemed to have such a firm grip on herself now that it was hard to remember how she had screamed this morning. But then I screamed, too, McLeod thought. “Is George here now?” she asked Molly.

“Oh, yes, they’re in Mr. Ledbetter’s office.”

“Mr. Ledbetter just went in to talk to the police,” said McLeod, who thought it would be wonderful to see George, even cry on his shoulder, then realized that that kind of behavior would be entirely inappropriate when George was in his official mode. She sighed and hesitated, unable to leave, but knowing she should get to her office.

Just then George came in, accompanied by an extremely tall gangly man who had to be President Thomas Blackman.

George stopped, startled. “McLeod!” he said. “What are you doing here? But I should have known you’d be involved somehow. Tom, this is McLeod Dulaney. McLeod, Tom Blackman.”

“How do you do?” said Blackman. His hand flapped loosely as he reached for one of McLeod’s, but his greeting was warm. “You’re George’s front room boarder, aren’t you?” Blackman said. “I’m glad to meet you, even in this troubling situation. I do hope you have a good semester here.”

“I’m sure I will. I’m sorry about Philip Sheridan. He was a very, very nice man.”

“He was indeed, and a very generous donor to Princeton. His death is a great loss and the manner of his death is shocking. Well, I’m glad I met you, McLeod, but we must be going. The press are sure to hear about this quickly, I’m afraid.”

Then he and George were gone.

“I want to talk to you McLeod,” said Dodo Westcott. “But I have to wait to talk to the police.”

“Let me go and speak to Chester again. He was so distressed earlier. I’ll see you when I come out, and if you’re in with the police, I’ll wait here for you. How’s that?”

Dodo agreed to this plan and continued to sit in the chair by Molly’s desk. McLeod found Chester still in his office, but calmer. The glass of water was empty. “Is there someone who could go home with you, Chester,” she asked. “Do you live nearby?”

“I lived with Mr. Sheridan,” he said dully.

“With Mr. Sheridan?” McLeod could not keep the surprise out of her voice.

“Yes. So you see he really was my best friend.”

“I see,” said McLeod. Again, she pulled up a chair and sat down.

“He used to live in a big old house in the Pretty Brook area but then he tore out the library and installed it here and smoothed the space over and sold the house. He moved into a much smaller house on Hibben Road. His companion for years and years had lived with him in the big house but he died just before Mr. Sheridan brought his collection here. Mr. Sheridan was already living alone in this smaller house when I came to work for him. I couldn’t afford a place in Princeton, and we got along so well that he invited me to live with him. And I did. I lived with him for ten years. I loved him.”

All this had come pouring out in a rush. Chester’s big brown eyes looked as huge as saucers and shone with incipient tears. McLeod tried to think if there was room in George’s house for poor Chester to stay for a while. There was a couch of sorts in the midst of all those unpacked cartons in George’s study. Could he sleep there? Would George be upset? No, he was a kind, generous man. She plunged: “Chester, would you like to come stay with us? I’m staying with George Bridges and you could bed down in his study. At least you wouldn’t be alone?”

“Thank you, Ms. Dulaney. But I think I’d rather stay in Mr. Sheridan’s house. George Bridges was just here—he came in with President Blackman.”

“If you change your mind, let me know. Incidentally, George’s house in on Edgehill, just up from Hibben Road. Which house do you live in?”

Chester told her the number and described the house.

“Oh, that’s very close to Edgehill. It’s a lovely house. Even if you don’t want to spend the night, then come to dinner,” said McLeod. She reflected that the houses on Hibben Road were not what she would call “small.” The “big house” in Pretty Brook must have been monstrous.

“I really think I’d better stay in the house,” said Chester. “I’ve always been there and I feel like I ought to be there now.”

“In that case, I’ll bring you your supper,” said McLeod.

“That’s very nice of you. I appreciate it, but I could manage, you know. I’m a fair cook.”

Natty came in as McLeod was leaving, and told Chester that everybody could leave as soon as they had talked to the police. “We won’t try to do any work today,” he said. “McLeod, we’re not going to provide services to researchers today. We just can’t.”

“Sure. I understand. You’re closed, and I’m leaving, Natty. Could you please tell Dodo Westcott I couldn’t wait?”

When she left Rare Books, it was after noon. Murder sure takes up time, she thought as she headed toward her office in Joseph Henry House. Chester’s grief had left her feeling unable to tolerate Dodo Westcott’s self-centered conversation, though she regretted breaking her word.

She pondered Chester’s situation. How could he cope alone, after having that close relationship at work and at home? For ten years, the young man and the older man had apparently thrived on it. She pitied him.

McLeod stopped by the café in Chancellor Green to pick up lunch and finally made it to her office. She was overwhelmed by the number of e-mails, and sat down to answer them while she drank her Coke and ate her chicken wrap. One message was from Clark Powell, the costume designer, reminding her that he was dying for the dresses. Naturally she had forgotten all about them. She replied that he could pick them up at her office when he came for his scheduled conference that afternoon. Good, she thought, that would work out. Except that she never had really looked at the dresses—just glanced at the contents of the carton and caught glimpses of sequins and ruffles—and hated to let them go without seeing them.

She finished up her e-mails, dealt with her phone messages, and then opened the carton and began to take gowns out. They were wonderful—one was black velvet with a high neck and long sleeves, another was pale blue lace with a low waist and satin sash. What looked like a black and gold dressing gown was bundled up. When she lifted it out of the box, it felt heavy. It was heavy, she found, because it was wrapped around something. She shook the object free from the bathrobe and laid it on her desk. It was a very old book with jewels encrusted in its heavy leather cover. It was, she discovered when she opened it, not a printed book but a manuscript written in gold ink, illustrated richly. What
was
it? Something religious—that was obvious from the prayerful postures of the people in the pictures and the halos on their heads. With the colors of the pictures and the gold writing, it was stunning, obviously old and obviously valuable. What on earth was it doing in a box of old clothes?

She went back to the carton. She took out another garment —a sequined black cocktail dress—very carefully. It was wrapped around a gold and silver crucifix. Another dress swaddled a box with carved ivory reliefs on the sides, a very beautiful object from another age. She shook out the last dress in the box and was almost relieved to find that it concealed no further treasure.

She looked at the three objects lined up on her desk for a long time, puzzled, not knowing what to do with them. What were these objects doing in a box of dresses that had been stored in a garage for twenty years? It was unfathomable. She could not just leave them in her office, which wasn’t a room, but an open cubicle. The file cabinet, however, did have locks on the drawers. She put the book, the crucifix, and the box in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet, covered them with an old copy of
The New York Times,
closed the drawer and locked it, and put the key on her key ring. She had found a body in the library that morning, and that was enough mystery for one day. She needed time to think what to do.