Devil's Night (11 page)

“Let’s get back to Mrs. Bishop,” Tony said. “She was apparently spending a lot of time in her office lately.”

“Ah, yes,” Claude replied. “Her secret project. She tried to hide the fact that she was working on something, but it was obvious. Only Emma seemed not to notice. No surprise there.”

“Do you know what the project was about?” Tony asked.

Claude shook his head. “I don’t. None of us did. But we were about to. I suppose Emma told you about the emergency meeting Constance had called for tonight.”

“She did,” Kat said.

“While our meetings were often less exciting than watching paint dry, I was looking forward to this one. I suspect Constance had found something very interesting. Now we might never find out what it was.”

On the way there, Kat and Tony had debated about mentioning the skeleton under the floor to the other members of the historical society. They eventually decided not to. Because the bones were apparently unearthed only recently, it was likely that Constance had been acting alone. If she wasn’t, then the hope was that her accomplice would slip up and mention it without prompting.

“What about the name Brad Ford?” Kat said. “You ever hear Constance mention him?”

“Brad Ford.” Claude rolled the name around in his mouth, tasting it like an oenophile did wine. “I can’t recall ever hearing the name. Was he a relative of hers? I thought she didn’t have any family.”

“We don’t know who he is,” Kat said. “I found the name in her office and thought it might be related to her secret project.”

“Constance didn’t like to share too many things with me, since we disagreed on most of them.”

“What else did you two disagree about?” Tony asked. “Money? We found your financial reports in her office. We know the historical society was deep in debt.”

Claude crossed his legs and folded his hands on his knees. It was a sight Kat knew well. During class Mr. Dobson would often assume that same pose as he sat on the corner of his desk. When he did, his students would ready their notebooks, knowing a torrent of information was about to be unleashed. That morning was no different.

“Constance was good-hearted but foolish,” he said. “And I’m not just saying that because, given my background in teaching history, I should have been president. She had lofty goals and silly notions that people in this town actually give a shit about history. Having been the one to teach it to most of them, I can assure you they don’t. If they did, the museum wouldn’t have been flat broke.”

“Emma said some of you wanted to charge admission to the museum,” Kat said. “Were you one of them?”

“My, that Emma talks a lot,” Claude said. “But to answer your question, yes. I’m the mean old man who dared suggest we actually make people pay to enter the museum. Constance, of course, disagreed. She said charging a fee cheapened our mission.”

“If money was so tight, why didn’t you sell some of the collection?” Tony asked. “It was worth millions.”

Claude uncrossed his legs, sighed, crossed them in the other direction. “And that was part of the problem. Constance kept buying new items. Because the museum building itself is on the state registry of historic places, we get some cash from the government. And there were fund-raisers, of course. Raffles, things like that. But as soon as the money came in, it went out again. Constance would spend it almost instantly on some godforsaken antique she insisted that the museum just had to have.”

“And I suppose,” Kat said, “she wasn’t too keen on selling anything.”

“She hated that idea more than charging admission. So we were left with too many items to put on display and no money in our bank account.”

“Sounds like the historical society was on the path to bankruptcy.”

“It was,” Claude said. “And had things stayed the same, I’m sure that would have been the end result.”

Kat arched an eyebrow. “You’re making Constance’s death sound like it’s a good thing.”

Her former teacher stared her down. “I’m sad that Constance is dead. I truly am. But this fire most likely saved us.”

“How so?” Tony asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Claude said, shaking his head in a fit of teacherly exasperation. “Insurance money. Practically every item in that museum was insured. Because of this fire, the historical society stands to gain millions.”

“Were there any other members who knew about the insurance policy?”

“We all did,” Claude replied. “Every single one of us.”

Kat’s heart started to beat faster, an excited thumping deep in her chest. Claude Dobson might not have been able to give her and Tony much information about who attacked Constance and started the fire, but he did provide something equally as valuable—a motive.

9
A
.
M
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“Do you think one of them did it?” Kat asked Tony once they were back in his car.

Nick, who had spent the time waiting for them sprawled across the backseat in boredom, lifted his head. “Who did what?”

“Members of the historical society,” Tony said.

“One of them might have killed Constance,” Kat chimed in.

Tony started the car and slipped on a pair of aviator shades. With the sunglasses, black suit, and determined set of his jaw, he looked more like a Secret Service agent than a state police detective. A
big
Secret Service agent. Lieutenant Vasquez was so huge that Kat was surprised the car didn’t tilt over on his side.

“The key word here is
might,
” he said. “I’d immediately suspect one of those history geeks if they all hadn’t been at that party when the fire broke out.”

“One of them wasn’t,” Kat said. “Emma Pulsifer told me she left around midnight.”

By this time Nick had sat up and was poking his head into the front seat like an impatient child on a car trip. “That would give her plenty of time to swing by the museum and try to start a fire. Maybe she thought Constance was gone. But when Constance caught her in the act, Emma had no choice but to knock her over the head.”

“I don’t think Emma is strong enough for that,” Kat said. “Wallace Noble really thinks this was the work of a man. I do, too.”

On their way out of Claude Dobson’s house, Kat and Tony had formed a plan. They’d split up and question the other two members of the historical society—Burt Hammond and Father Ron—simultaneously. Only now Tony was rethinking that strategy. Kat could tell by the way he stroked his Dick Tracy chin, lost in thought.

“I think I should talk to this Emma Pulsifer myself,” he said. “Kat, I assume you can handle the other two on your own.”

Kat didn’t dignify the comment with a response. Of course she could handle a mayor and a priest. She and Burt Hammond didn’t get along, it was true, and she’d hadn’t been to church—any church—in years. But questioning them would be easy enough. She had a bullshit detector that was swayed by neither bureaucracy nor God.

“What can I do?” Nick asked.

Tony shot him a glance in the rearview mirror. “Realize you’re no longer a cop and go home.”

“Hell will freeze over before that happens.”

“Listen up,” Tony said. “I got serious shit for letting you get involved with the Olmstead investigation.”

“I’m the one who told you about the Olmstead case,” Nick shot back. “And if I remember correctly, you’re not the one who solved it, either.”

Listening to their back and forth, Kat pinched the bridge of her nose. A headache was coming on. She got them when she was tired. And when two former colleagues argued in her ear.

“Enough,” she said with a finality that silenced both men. “Tony, you talk to Emma. Nick and I will interview the others. Then we’ll meet up in two hours to compare notes.”

“Fine.” Tony shook his head, letting it be known he still thought it was a bad idea. He then turned to face Nick. “You have to follow three rules. First, let Kat do the talking. Second, seriously, let Kat do the talking. Third, don’t slow her down.”

Kat wasn’t sure about the first two, but the third rule went out the window as soon as Tony dropped them off in front of town hall. Nick struggled with the steps leading up to the front entrance, leaning heavily on his cane. Once inside, he insisted on taking the stairs to the mayor’s office on the second floor.

“You know you don’t have to be so stubborn around me,” Kat said as she waited for him at the top. “We could have taken the elevator.”

Nick was out of breath by the time he finally reached the second-floor landing, pushing his response in labored puffs. “Elevators. Are. For. Sissies.”

“And for former cops who destroyed their knee while saving my life.”

“You’re welcome, by the way.” He walked right past her, the thump of his cane echoing off the marble floor. “Now let’s go see the mayor.”

That turned out to be easier said than done. Mayor Hammond’s outer office, where his secretary normally sat, was vacant. So was his inner office, with its wide-windowed view of Main Street. Granted, it was a Saturday morning, but Burt kept his office open until noon on those days. It was something he prided himself on—going out of his way to be accessible to Perry Hollow residents, even on a weekend morning. Except, apparently, that morning.

Kat stepped into his empty office. It was exactly what you’d expect from a small-town mayor with big-time ambitions. A Pennsylvania state flag hung next to Old Glory. Plaques and commendations covered the walls. Since the mayor was single and childless, the photos on his desk weren’t of family. Instead, there were pictures of him glad-handing semifamous people. Kat spotted one of the mayor with the governor. Another showed him smiling next to a running back for the Philadelphia Eagles. Beside that was one of him shaking hands with an attractive woman in a short skirt and high heels, whom Kat didn’t recognize. Maybe a former Miss Pennsylvania. Or the star of a reality show. You could never tell with Burt Hammond.

“Are you looking for the mayor?”

Kat whirled around to see his secretary standing in the doorway. She held an arm out in front of her, a hanger dangling from a well-manicured finger. On the hanger was a pale blue shirt draped in clear plastic. Of course, Burt Hammond was the type of person who sent his secretary to pick up his dry cleaning.

“We are,” Kat said. “Do you know where he is?”

“He’s at the rec center. You know him and the Halloween festival.”

The Halloween festival, planned for later that night, was one of the mayor’s pet projects. It had once been Perry Hollow’s biggest annual event. A parade down Main Street. Everyone in costume. An influx of visitors from across the state sipping hot apple cider. Then the Grim Reaper had struck during the middle of it and all hell had broken loose.

This year Burt had decided to scale it down, moving the festival to the ancient rec center two blocks from Main. Although Kat was sad to see the downsizing of an event she remembered fondly from her childhood, it made sense from a public-safety standpoint. Plus, after what happened the year before, she doubted too many out-of-towners would be flocking to Perry Hollow to take part.

So they left the mayor’s office, intent on finding him at the rec center. In the hallway, Kat turned to Nick as he limped toward the stairs.

“Call me a sissy,” she said, “but we’re taking the elevator.”

*

The Perry Hollow Athletic Center was a square and squat building that always reminded Kat of a giant concrete block dropped in the middle of town. Built in the forties when the mill was running at its peak, the rec center was a relic of more prosperous days, a reminder of when the town had money for public buildings with state-of-the-art amenities. Seventy years later, it was still in use, although it had lost its state-of-the-art designation sometime during the Eisenhower administration.

The inside of the rec center was just as old and run-down as the outside. Walking past walls painted institutional gray, Kat noticed about a dozen things that needed improvement. Every third bulb of the buzzing fluorescent lights seemed to be out. Missing tiles in the floor left more gaps than an old man’s smile. The place was so empty and dim that Kat was relieved to enter the gymnasium, which was bustling with people and was in the process of being festooned with Halloween decorations. A little color went a long way, even if it was mostly orange and black.

The workers in the gym were a select group of put-together mothers who seemed to have endless time and energy. Kat, who secretly referred to the group as the PTA Mafia, was wary of all of them. They always appeared friendly, smiling and saying how proud they were that the town had a “woman police chief.” But she often detected a note of superiority in their voices, and more than a little bit of pity. They assumed—incorrectly—that she would rather have a husband who earned six figures and a normal son that she could drive back and forth to soccer games. Well, she did have a normal son, who was pretty damn good at soccer. As for the husband, she had had one once. Looking at how that had turned out, Kat wasn’t sure she wanted another.

As she stepped farther into the gymnasium, a few members of the PTA Mafia offered obligatory waves before turning their attention to Nick. He was like catnip to those ladies. Handsome and intense, he was all the more mysterious now that he used a cane. The rumor persisted around town that he and Kat were having a secret, torrid affair. Yet another reason the women in the room stared at her with disdain as they stuffed straw into half-finished scarecrows and wrangled costumes onto mannequins on loan from the town’s dress shop. Quite simply, they were jealous.

Other than Nick, the only male in the gymnasium was Burt Hammond, who stood in the middle of the basketball court, the center of attention. It was, Kat knew far too well, where he liked to be.

Luckily for Burt, his height—inches past six feet—made it easy for him to stand out in the crowd. So did the fact that his frequent trips to the tanning bed left his skin taut and bronzed, even in the middle of winter. Then there was his mole—a dime-sized spot on his chin that the mayor used to his advantage. When he walked down Main Street, it was with his chin jutted forward, so people could tell from a distance that it was he who was approaching.