“I think you can get killed with blanks, too," Shelley said. "Maybe that's what happened. And to answer your question, no. She seemed like a very nice, bland person. In fact, my impression was that she was one of those earnest, boring individuals who use all their energy to do their job very well and have nothing left to form a personality."
“So she was really good at being a museum director? What does that entail?"
“I've no idea," Shelley said. "Administrative stuff, I guess. But everybody at the museum deferred to her with what seemed like real respect. I know she managed to bag a couple of traveling exhibits that were a big deal in museum circles.
Well, in little pea-museum circles, at any rate. And she was in charge of getting the new building and organizing the move. Which is why I dragged you in, Jane."
“We're moving things next week? But, Shelley, there's nowhere to move to. The ground-breaking for the new building is tomorrow. Or it was supposed to be."
“Jane, the museum's been in the same building since 1907. The basement alone is stacked with ninety years' worth of — stuff. People give their old junk to museums and it piles up. It all has to be cataloged and evaluated and packed up for the move when the building is ready. It's months and months of work. I imagine half of the stuff, at least, will just be pitched. Or given to some even more downtrodden museum."
“But, Shelley, I'm antiques-impaired. I don't know valuable from dreck. And you're not much brighter than I am about it."
“We don't have to make decisions. Just write down what we can recognize, store it in boxes with labels, and leave everything else for the experts."
“You're saying we're the bottom of the food chain, aren't you? The poor slobs who dust things off and sweep up the mouse droppings?"
“Just about. But it's the necessary first step."
“And we start that on Monday? How long is our sentence?"
“I only volunteered you for next week," Shelley said. "I knew you'd be busy the week after that, getting Mike off to college.”
Jane almost offered the comment that her son Mike was doing quite nicely at preparing himself for college, but feared that might get her condemned to yet another week in a dusty, musty basement. For the past two weeks he'd been taking his own inventory of possessions, passing down many of his treasures to his soon to-be-seventh-grade brother, Todd, and high schooler-sister, Katie. To give them credit, they received his offerings with a polite pretense of gratitude. Mike had also generated a mountain of trash. His bedroom was eerily tidy now, with most of his belongings stored in cartons in the garage, ready to be put in the back of his brand-new, graduation-gift pickup truck and Jane's wheezing old station wagon when moving day arrived.
A day Jane dreaded.
Since her husband had died in a car accident several years earlier, Jane's practical, sensible oldest child had been her mainstay. She was realizing the truth of something her mother often said: that about the time your kids get to be real people whom you like, they go away.
“Quit daydreaming," Shelley said. "I think we have a customer.”
A man was approaching, slapping a Snellen Museum brochure against the palm of his hand. He was plump and vaguely unhealthy-looking, with graying blond hair and a sparse Douglas Fairbanks-style mustache. He wore baggy plaid shorts and a Snellen Museum Pea Pickin' T-shirt that was much too tight. He strolled along the length of the counter, critically surveying the merchandise, picking things up, setting them down, shaking his head as if angry.
Shelley asked him cheerfully if there was anything in particular he wanted, and he merely grunted a rude negative. After examining everything, he said to her, "So what do you sell this junk for?”
Shelley's eyes flashed, but she answered pleasantly. "The prices are marked on each item."
“Yeah, but what does the museum make on each thing? What percentage?”
Shelley drew herself up indignantly. "I have no idea. Nor can I imagine why you need to know.”
He wasn't cowed. "I'm interested 'cause I'm a Snellen, lady. My family funds this operation.”
But Shelley wasn't easily intimidated, either. "Then you surely have access to that information without being rude to a volunteer."
“Yeah, I'll ask Georgia. She'll know." And without any apology, he shambled off.
“What a jerk!" Shelley muttered.
Sharlene Lloyd came through the tent flap at the back of the booth. "Is he gone?" she asked quietly.
“The Nightmare Customer? Yes, he's gone. Who is he?" Shelley asked.
“He's Miss Daisy Snellen's nephew, Caspar. He's always giving somebody trouble. Was he nasty to you?"
“Only moderately," Shelley admitted. "Nothing I couldn't handle."
“I came to see if you've had anything to eat," Sharlene said. "I'll get you some lunch."
“No, no!" Jane said. "If you'll sit and rest a minute here with Shelley, I'll get us something. You don't have to wait on us."
“But the volunteers are supposed to be fed at Snellen expense and I need—"
“Have you had anything to eat, Sharlene?" Jane cut in. "No? Well, I'll get everybody something and we'll sort it out with the museum later." She got up and practically forced Sharlene into her vacant chair. When Jane returned a few minutes later with hot dogs, chips, a few limp celery stalks, and drinks, Shelley was waiting on a customer and Sharlene was reorganizing the small cash box.
Shelley sent her customer off with two museum bumper stickers and a jump rope, then sat down. "That's appalling, Jane," she said, staring at Jane's hot dog, which was piled high with sauerkraut and suspiciously yellow cheese. "How can you eat something so revolting?"
“I've got a cast-iron digestive track," Jane said. "Except I'm starting to have a little trouble with melons—"
“I don't want to hear about it!" Shelley said firmly. "Sharlene, what about the groundbreaking ceremony tomorrow? Will it go on?"
“I don't know. I guess it's up to Babs McDonald and Tom.”
It took Jane a second to remember that "Tom" was Jumper Cable, the attorney who looked likean eighteen-year-old. "Why them in particular?""Because they're the most important people on the board of directors of the museum. That's how Miss Daisy Snellen wanted it. At least one of them has to approve any important decision.”
Shelley and Jane chatted about the merchandise until Sharlene had finished her food, which she set aside barely nibbled. Shelley said, "Sharlene, can you talk about Ms. Palmer? I hardly knew her at all.”
Sharlene's eyes filled with tears, but she lifted her head and said, "She was wonderful. Just the most wonderful person in the world. At least to me she was. When I started working at the museum, I'd just finished my secretarial course. I knew how to type and take shorthand, but I didn't know much about spelling and grammar because I always thought that was dull. Ms. Palmer would correct my mistakes without making me feel stupid. All my teachers had always made out like I was some kind of dummy. I was real pretty in high school, and I guess they expected me to be an idiot."
“You're very pretty now," Jane said, "and you're obviously not stupid."
“No, I'm fat."
“You're voluptuous," Shelley exclaimed. "I'd give anything for a bosom like yours!”
Sharlene blushed and said, "Voluptuous? I'll look that one up. Anyway, after a while, Ms. Palmer told me about some classes I could take in English. Didn't say I had to, or even that I needed to. Just made it sound like something I'd have fun doing. And, you know? It was. Everybody else in the class carried on like crazy about having to diagram sentences and all, but I liked it. It was like working jigsaw puzzles, sort of.”
Jane nodded. "I liked it, too."
“Ms. Palmer always asked about what I was learning, and even helped me when there was something I didn't understand. She was awfully smart and well educated. Went to fancy private schools, I imagine. Anyhow, after I took those classes, she started talking about other classes I could take. History and business. She even got the board of directors to pay for my tuition. On-the-job training, she called it. When I got my certificate from junior college. ." She paused, a sob stuck in her throat for a minute, then took a deep breath and plowed on. "When I got my certificate, there was a ceremony. Ms. Palmer not only came to it, but she brought Babs McDonald and even Miss Daisy Snellen, who hardly went out at all by that time. It was like having a family there that was proud of me.”
Jane was getting choked up herself. "How lovely!" she said in a shaky voice. "And how proud of you they all must have been.”
Sharlene nodded. "I think they really were.”
Shelley, considerably less sentimental than Jane, said, "Sharlene, you said she was wonderful to you. I see what you mean, but did everybody like her as much as you did?"
“Everybody respected and admired her. Well — almost everyone."
“Who didn't?" Shelley asked bluntly. Sharlene waved toward the front of the booth. "That awful Caspar Snellen, the man who wasjust here. He didn't like her at all, but that was his own fault."
“Why didn't he like her?" Jane asked.
“Oh, because he's mean and greedy. Miss Daisy Snellen was his aunt, you see. And he thought he and his sister, Georgia, should get all the Snellen money. When Miss Daisy died, she left him and his sister a lot of money. About a million dollars each, I heard. But the rest all went to the museum. And Caspar made a big, hateful stink about it. Said Ms. Palmer had sucked up to his aunt and that Miss Daisy was senile. It was awful. He brought some kind of lawsuit and threatened to have newspaper interviews and everything. In fact, he'd done something nasty even before Miss Daisy died."
“What kind of something?" Shelley asked.
“Tried to have her declared incontinent — no, incompetent. I mix those words up. But Tom took care of that in no time."
“Was Tom Cable Miss Daisy's attorney?" Jane asked, having a lot of trouble picturing Jumper Cable in a suit and tie, arguing a case in court.
Sharlene nodded. "And he was like an honorary grandson to her, too."
“So Miss Snellen's nephew, Caspar, was the only person who disliked Ms. Palmer?" Shelley persisted.
“As far as I know. Well, there's Derek, too. But he doesn't like anyone."
“Who in the world is Derek?" Jane asked.
“He's the assistant director of the museum. When Miss Daisy died and the board decided to build the new building and all, they thought it would be too hard for Ms. Palmer to do everything and insisted that it was time to get an assistant director."
“Why did Derek dislike her?"
“I shouldn't have said that," Sharlene said. "I don't think Derek disliked her, exactly. He's just real ambitious and I think he wanted her job. And I don't think he liked being second to a woman. He's a real sexist jerk. You know, the kind of man who's always pawing and drooling over women, but you know he really despises them."
“Sharlene, I just realized something," Jane said. "You call everyone by their first name except Ms. Palmer.”
Sharlene looked perplexed. "Her first name was Regina."
“But you didn't call her that?"
“Oh, no! I wouldn't ever do that. It would be too personal. She was my boss."
“But so are Tom Cable and Babs McDonald, in a way."
“Yes, but they're different."
“How so?”
Sharlene thought for a minute. "I don't know exactly. Ms. Palmer was so businesslike. And such a lady. Well, so is Babs, but she insisted that I call her by her first name. I'm not sure why it was different with Ms. Palmer."
“Excuse me. How do you get inside?" Mel said from the front of the booth.
Jane was startled. "Oh, Mel. I didn't see you there. Come around the back.”
She opened the tent flap and held it for him.He was carrying a canvas tote bag with the Pea Festival logo on it. He sat down on Jane's chair and faced Sharlene. From the tote bag he carefully removed a heavy plastic bag. Holding it by one corner, he laid it on the ground and looked up at Sharlene. "Do you recognize this?”
The plastic bag contained a small gun. It was old, ornate, and looked like a fancy toy. Or one of the "ladies" guns that saloon madams in Western movies always seemed to have concealed in their garters.
Sharlene leaned over to study it. "Yes — at least I've seen one just like it. At the museum. Where did you find it?"
“It was left on the field," Mel said. "In a clump of weeds.”
Sharlene sat up very straight and paled. "Is it — is it the gun that killed Ms. Palmer?"
“We don't know yet. Can you come to the museum with me now and see if the one the museum owns is still there?”
Four
when they were alone again, Shelley
said, "What was all that about first names?"
“I don't know exactly. It just struck me as odd that she never called her boss by a first name," Jane said. "I couldn't figure out if that said something about Sharlene, or about Regina Palmer."
“Probably both," Shelley replied, picking up their paper plates and plastic cups. "She was introduced to me as Ms. Palmer, come to think of it. And she didn't leap in and invite me to call her Regina. But then, I don't always do that with people, either. I make clear to Paul's employees that I'm Mrs. Nowack. And I imagine that there still are a lot of professional women who prefer to keep a little bit of formality in their business relationships."
“Or she was a cold fish," Jane said.
Shelley smiled. "Right. And keep in mind that Regina was Sharlene's mentor. Almost her idol. You don't call idols by their first names. About that gun Mel had—”
Jane knew what Shelley was thinking and nodded. "Uh-huh. I wouldn't place a bet on there being two of them."
“Which means someone took it from the museum before the reenactment."