Stuck on Murder (20 page)

“All right,” she said, and she upended the box onto the table. “Let’s start by sorting these smallest to largest.”

Ella, Marie, Lillian, and Sarah each took a handful of photographs and newspaper clippings and began to organize them.

“How big is the plaque supposed to be?” Marie asked.

“Eleven by seventeen,” Brenna said.

“Humph,” Ella sniffed.

Brenna ducked her head to keep from laughing. She figured that was Ella’s way of saying that Cynthia thought pretty well of herself. She had to agree. In going through the photos, it was impossible not to notice that, other than the picture Ms. Sokolov had given her, Cynthia was in all but one headshot of Mayor Ripley.

“What were your plans for the layout?” Tenley asked.

“I would love to take all these photos and clippings and go totally Warhol with primary colors, et cetera, but I’m thinking Cynthia would be unhappy.”

“You think?” Marie asked. Her sarcasm was thicker than the Mod Podge adhesive she’d used on her last project. “Not a lick of artistic ability in that one. Just look at her birdhouse.”

Brenna glanced over on the shelf where it sat, looking forlorn. Cynthia had decorated it in fluffy pink kittens wearing big blue bows.

“Well, she did drop it,” she said.

“It’s still butt ugly,” Ella whispered. “Denting the corner just gave it some sorely needed character.”

Tenley burst into a coughing fit, no doubt to cover her laughter.

“Yes, well, I promised I’d fix it,” Brenna said. “Cynthia wants to hang it in the tree near Mayor Ripley’s grave.”

“But there aren’t any trees near his plot in the cemetery,” Lillian, the librarian, said.

She glanced at Brenna through her narrow black-framed glasses. She was in her mid-forties, had five rambunctious boys, six if you counted her husband, and was the most well-read person Brenna had ever met. She wasn’t very good at decoupage, and she came to the classes mostly to escape her masculine brood. No one blamed her.

“Really? No trees? I could have sworn that’s what she said.”

“You must have misheard,” Marie said. “Everyone knows all of the mayors are buried on the top of the hill, so they can overlook the town. There aren’t any trees planted there; otherwise they couldn’t see the town, now could they?”

Brenna frowned. “Maybe Cynthia is having him buried someplace else.”

The Porter twins looked at each other and then at her as if she were too stupid to live. Then they looked away, as if it were just too painful to deal with her city-bred ignorance. Brenna sighed. As always, fitting in with the residents of Morse Point was a toe-stomping waltz of one step forward and twelve steps back.

“Back to the collage,” Tenley said, in an obvious attempt to change the subject, for which Brenna was grateful. “If you’re not going Warhol, what are you thinking?”

“Honestly, I’m just hoping we can fit all of this onto the plaque.”

“Some of these are too big,” Tenley agreed. She was examining an eight-by-ten of the mayor and Cynthia in formal attire. “We could take them to the copy store and have them reduced.”

“That would work,” Brenna agreed. “Let’s separate all of the pictures that need to be smaller and I’ll take them over as soon as I can.”

They made a pile and put them at the end of the worktable. Then Brenna laid out the remaining photos and clippings to see how much room was left.

“It’s going to be tight, but I think we can manage it,” she said.

Ella and Marie looked over her shoulder and clucked their approval. Lillian and Sarah looked over as well and nodded in agreement.

Brenna had placed the large headshot of the mayor in the middle, then using a spiraling technique, she layered additional photos and clippings to swirl out from the center, leaving blank spots for the photos that needed to be reduced in size to fit.

“You have a real eye for shape and color,” Sarah said.

She leaned close to Brenna to examine the layout, and a whiff of cinnamon filled the air. Soft-spoken, Sarah was short and stout and the scent of whatever she had baked that day often filled the air about her. Brenna always felt like she was being hugged when she stood next to her.

“You have a gift,” Sarah said.

“More like a knack, I think, but thank you,” Brenna said.

“Put that down,” Marie snapped.

“No,” Ella refused.

Brenna glanced up to see Ella walking away from the refreshment table with the last of the cream puffs Sarah had brought from the bakery.

“You have to share,” Marie insisted.

“No, I don’t,” Ella said. “You’ve already had five. These are mine.”

Brenna exchanged an exasperated look with Tenley. She had a feeling the twins could get ugly over cream puffs. She was right.

Marie reached around Ella and tried to snatch a cream puff off the plate. Ella spun away from her but Marie caught the edge of the plate with her hand and the cream puffs were launched catapult style. No one moved as the tiny pastries spun through the air to land with a splat on Brenna’s layout.

“Now look what you made me do,” Ella snapped.

“I made you?” Marie argued. “If you hadn’t tried to hog them all—”

“Ladies,” Tenley interrupted. “We have a bigger issue here. Now take it outside or zip it.”

The Porter twins chose to zip it, but this did not prevent them from glowering at one another.

Brenna grabbed a cloth and tried to blot up the cream filling. The photos were okay but the newspaper clipping was done for.

“I don’t think there’s any way to save this clipping,” Lillian said. “The ink is beginning to run through and the paper has absorbed chocolate filling.”

“I’ll have to find another one,” Brenna said. “Would the library have the paper back this far?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Ed Johnson is so controlling, he won’t let us keep any back issues. We lease our subscription and have to return the papers to him every month.”

“You mean you don’t have any old issues?” Brenna asked.

“Only a month’s worth. For anything older, you have to go to the
Courier
offices,” she said.

Brenna stared at Lillian and then she smiled. She couldn’t believe it. All of her problems had just been solved by a flying cream puff.

Chapter 18

The map was antique looking, printed on firm paper, not as hearty as card stock but not as flimsy as newsprint. The predominant colors were rich browns and reds and showed a cartographer’s guess at what the world looked like in the times before Columbus fell upon America. Brenna had been commissioned to cover a small oak table with it.

The main image had gone on smoothly and she was now working on the edging and the legs. Brenna was using squares of matching reds and browns to give the surface a finished look.

The little table had been sitting in her living room for two weeks now, and murder or no murder, Brenna knew her buyer wanted the piece finished soon. She was using a long straight-edged ruler to match the squares at opposite ends of the map. She took the two-by-two-inch squares out of the small bowl of water by her knee and let them drip dry, then she covered the back with a light coating of glue. Carefully, she put the squares on the table, making sure they were aligned, then she used a cloth to gently dab up the excess water and glue. After that, she ran over the squares with her brayer and dabbed at the paper again with the cloth, using the ruler to make sure the squares were still in alignment.

Brenna enjoyed the rhythm of working on a piece. It quieted her mind when she concentrated on the task at hand, and it let her focus more specifically on the millions of questions that flitted through her head. During those dark days after the gallery robbery in Boston, she had worked on numerous pieces both large and small. Looking back, she believed it was the only thing that had kept her sane.

It was easier for her to mull things over when she had something to do with her hands. She considered what Marybeth had told her about Roger Chisholm and Bart Thompson, and she wondered why Ed hadn’t gone after them like he did Nate Williams. But, of course, according to Dom, Ed needed to sell papers, and Roger and Bart were of no interest to the world at large. Nate was a celebrity. The mystery that surrounded his departure from the art world made him an enticing murder suspect. Undoubtedly, Ed couldn’t resist, especially if it meant saving the
Morse Point Courier
.

Brenna wondered if she should call Dom and see if he could get her into the
Courier
to look around. She hesitated. First, she didn’t know Dom that well, and second, bringing in Dom might put Ed on his guard. No, she needed to get into the
Courier
offices when very few people were there and look around unimpeded. She glanced at the chocolate-covered newsprint lying on her counter. She ran the brayer over a line of squares. She would go tomorrow night.

 

 

Brenna had figured on going into the Courier building alone. The only problem was Tenley wouldn’t let her go without a lookout. When Brenna protested, her friend got downright surly about it and so she reluctantly let Tenley play lookout again.

It was late evening. Brenna sat in the passenger seat of Tenley’s car, and they waited until most of the
Courier
staff had departed for dinner. She noticed that the few who entered the building had swipe badges. She wondered how she was going to get in without one. For good measure they waited until those who had entered during their watch left again. Office lights were shut off and there was an air of abandonment about the place. Now, Brenna felt confident enough to leave Tenley keeping a lookout in the car while she hurried across the street to the building.

Brenna stood in the shadows until a photographer banged out of the main door, talking on his phone while juggling his camera. Brenna grabbed the door before it shut and slipped inside.

There was a peculiar smell to the offices of the
Morse Point Courier
. Brenna tried to place it, but all she came up with was a mixture of sweat, rancid coffee, and printer’s ink.

A light at the end of a short hall led her to the main newsroom. Most of the cubicles sat empty. She wandered through the sea of abandoned desks until she reached the one office in the room that had a door. It belonged to John Sheady, the night editor.

John was a little over six feet tall and everything about him was gray. His hair, his dingy dress shirt, his charcoal slacks, even his skin under the pulsing fluorescent lights appeared to be a pearly shade of gray. John had been the night editor for fifteen years, and Brenna wondered if this was what a life without daylight did to a person.

He glanced up from his computer. He appeared grumpy and annoyed at the interruption, but when she explained about the plaque, he nodded in understanding.

“I went to grade school with Jim,” he said. “He wasn’t my favorite person, but he sure deserved better than this. I can’t imagine what Chief Barker was thinking letting that crazy artist out of jail when he’s obviously a sociopath.”

“He is not,” Brenna snapped.

John looked at her and Brenna pressed her lips together. She had to play this very carefully; otherwise she’d be tossed out on her posterior before she had a chance to look for any evidence.

“What I mean is, ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ Right?” she asked.

“So, what is it that you need exactly?” John asked. He looked less helpful than he had a minute ago and Brenna figured she’d better smooth it over.

“A copy of the article about Ripley being sworn in as mayor,” she said. “One of my students splatted a cream puff all over the original.”

John Sheady took the chocolate-crusted clipping out of her hand and grimaced. “You’re lucky the date is still legible.”

“I know,” she said.

“We have old issues on hard copy and on microfilm. I’ll get you the hard copy. It’ll make a better print for what you’re doing.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Look, I have to proof the layouts for tonight’s print run,” he said. “I can show you the archive room and the copiers and then you’re on your own.”

Brenna wanted to do a happy dance, but she settled for smiling and nodding instead.

John led her back through the maze of cubicles to a room in the back of the building. The temperature dropped to a frigid fifty-eight degrees, and Brenna knew it was to preserve the papers that had yet to be put on film.

John checked the date on the clipping and then led her to the compact shelving. He hit a button to make the shelves move over. A grinding noise began, and one by one the shelves slid over toward the right wall.

Once they stopped, John stepped in between them and pulled out an archival box of newspapers.

“The one you’re looking for is in here,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “I have to start proofing. The copier is down the hall to your right, in front of Ed’s office. When you’re done, leave the papers in the box here. I’ll put them away.”