Mapping murder interior.., p.21
Mapping Murder interior EPUB, page 21
At some point over dinner on Friday, Rich had mentioned that he had a plan for them for the weekend that would, as he put it, “tap the rich cultural resources of this university town.”
Julie reminded him of that as they lay in bed Saturday morning, listening to the rain.
“If basketball fits your definition of culture, I can deliver on that,” he replied.
“And if it doesn’t?”
“I can still deliver.”
Julie’s dislike of basketball was an oft-mentioned point of difference between them. Rich adored it and followed both college and professional teams, but Julie said that she’d prefer watching paint dry any day. Neither considered the difference of opinion a source of real tension, but on a rainy November day in Orono, Julie didn’t see herself sitting in an arena watching Black Bears hoops. And said so.
“Well, I do have an alternative—or actually, an additional event, since the game isn’t until this evening. This afternoon I have a lecture for us to attend. Surely that qualifies as culture!”
“Not if it’s about basketball.”
“Try ceramics—eighteenth-century English ceramics, to be precise.”
“Fascinating!” she said jokingly.
“And here I thought you’d be eternally grateful to me for providing a touch of the exotic. You’re sure not showing your gratitude.”
“I could,” she said.
Later, over their leisurely breakfast, Rich explained that the university’s gallery was opening a new exhibit of ceramics; the lecture, to be given by a noted expert from University College London, was the kickoff event.
“It should be fun, Rich. I mean that—I don’t get much in the way of intellectual stimulation, and I really should learn more about ceramics. You remember that’s what was stolen from Two Rivers?”
“Yes—part of the reason I thought we should go. Still no news on that?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I just talked to Betsey Bowers this week to let her know it seems like a dead end. I didn’t mention Timothy Brothers and his appearance at the gun show, but until I figure out who he is, the connection isn’t going to get those ceramic pieces back.”
“Maybe the lecture will give you a clue.”
“Right! I’m looking forward to it, Rich—it will be a nice break.”
“From running the historical society—or solving mysteries?”
“Both. What time is the lecture?”
“Four o’clock.”
“And the game?”
“Seven.”
“Sounds tight. I wonder if we can do both?”
“Doubtful. Would you mind if we just went to the lecture and then went out for an early dinner afterwards?” Rich said, with a knowing smile.
“I can live with that.”
Chapter 29
The crowd entering the lobby of the gallery surprised Julie, but as Rich pointed out, a rainy Saturday in Orono didn’t offer much competition. They joined the others in wrestling their umbrellas closed and depositing them in the racks outside the door to the lecture room. By the time they entered, the only available seats were near the back, but Julie said she preferred sitting there anyway, to get a better view of the screen. The lecturer, so obviously English in his tight black suit and narrow tie, was prancing about in front and consulting with someone over the operation of the controls for the projecting device.
“Wouldn’t it be nice just to see an old-fashioned slide show?” Julie asked Rich after they took their seats. “I’m sure it’ll be PowerPoint, and I’m sure there will be problems.” Rich nodded in agreement.
A woman moved to the podium, welcomed them, and proceeded to give an introduction that said more about her than the speaker, who stood nervously to the side, awaiting his turn. Once he got past his acknowledgment of the introduction, apologies in advance for his lack of familiarity with the projecting technology, and preliminary explanations of his topic, he quickly settled in to what Julie admitted to herself was a lucid and interesting summary of the development of ceramics in eighteenth-century England—something she knew very little about, and found engaging for that very reason. Even so, as he spoke, Julie occasionally found her mind wandering to those missing items at Two Rivers Museum.
And then she spotted him—or his head, at least. Julie was sure James Hartshorn was sitting near the front, twisting from time to time and nodding at points the speaker was making. She leaned over to whisper to Rich to see if he agreed on the man’s identity, but Rich whispered back that he had only met Hartshorn once, and hadn’t paid attention to the back of his head. A dark look from a person in the row ahead of them who turned to express displeasure at their whispering ended the conversation.
Julie was sure it was James Hartshorn. Maybe not surprising, since his museum was only an hour or so away from Orono, but still interesting, she thought. Was Hartshorn a ceramics guy? She didn’t know, but she knew she was going to ask him.
When the talk ended, the speaker agreed to answer questions, and for the next fifteen minutes, people gave mini lectures from their seats, showing off their own knowledge more than asking the speaker to display his. Finally, the woman who had introduced the talk stood up and suggested that if others had questions, they could come to the front and ask them individually. While a handful of people made their way forward, like salmon swimming upstream against the current, most of the audience flowed to the rear.
Julie kept her eyes on Hartshorn to make sure he didn’t disappear into the retreating crowd. Then his eyes met hers, and the awkward smile that came across his face left Julie puzzled: Was he happy to see her? Embarrassed? Just surprised? She wasn’t sure, but when he waved to indicate he’d catch up with her in the lobby, she concluded that at a minimum he wasn’t trying to hide from her. Well, how could he?
“How lovely to see you, Julie,” Hartshorn said when she and Rich worked their way over to him at the long refreshments table. “And Rick, is it?” he asked, turning toward Rich, who quickly corrected him. “Of course, of course. And you teach here, don’t you?” Rich admitted he did. “Which is of course what brings you here, Julie,” Hartshorn continued.
“And what brings you?” Julie asked, more abruptly than she wished.
“Ceramics. I’m quite mad about it, as our English speaker might say. Are you fond of it, too?”
“Oh, I like to look at ceramic pieces, but I’m pretty ignorant—don’t know a thing about glazes or any of the technical stuff.”
“One doesn’t need to, really,” Hartshorn said, implying, Julie felt, that of course he knew quite a bit about glazes and might, if prompted, proceed to inform her.
“But I suppose it would help,” Rich interjected, “although the lecture was pretty interesting, even to me.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” Hartshorn said. “He’s really tops in the field, our speaker. When I saw the announcement of the lecture, I said I just had to come over to hear it.”
“You’re not far away, are you?” Julie asked.
“An hour as the crow flies, but nearly double that if you’re not a crow,” he answered, laughing at his effort at wit.
“Does Down East Historical Society have a good collection—of ceramics?”
“A few items of interest, but a lot of the kind of stuff we all have—bowls, pitchers, the sort of thing our generous donors feel we couldn’t do without. Probably about the same as Ryland.”
Julie nodded her agreement.
The sherry and nibbles on the table beside them were now under steady and aggressive attack, and Rich suggested they should get something now before it disappeared. She declined, but Hartshorn was eager, and he and Rich decided to push through the group in front of them to retrieve something. Julie said she’d retreat to the other side of the lobby and await their return.
As she did, she brought to mind what Mike Barlow had found out about Hartshorn’s alibis: He had said he was working at Down East when Dan Dumont had been murdered, and that he was driving home from Portland when Julie had been run off the road. So no help there. But his interest in ceramics was interesting. She decided to use it to probe his awareness of the missing ceramics.
“Two Rivers, without a doubt,” he replied, when, as the three of them sheltered in the corner with drinks and plates, Julie asked where he thought the best ceramics collection in the state was. “You’ve seen it, of course,” he said. “Mostly American, but as I recall, they have a few choice English items—a nice pitcher, I think, late eighteenth century. Possibly more.”
Or used to, Julie said to herself, since she remembered clearly that one of the missing items was a 1798 pitcher, made in England but featuring an American packet boat.
“Anything like that in your collection?” she asked.
“Not that fine, I’m afraid. I’d be delighted to have it, or anything like it, but Down East doesn’t have much of a collections budget, and of course, nice pieces don’t come on the market that often anyway.”
So stealing them would be the best approach, Julie thought.
“I’ve got a few in my own personal collection,” Hartshorn continued, “not at the historical society. A very nice creamer, a set of teacups, a few other pieces.”
“You’re a private collector, then,” Julie said.
“Oh, on the most modest scale! Back when I had a full-time job that actually paid me, I dabbled a bit, picking up things here and there. But I’m hardly a ‘private collector.’ ”
“Do you still collect?”
“Haven’t bought anything for myself in years, since I came here. If anything came my way, I’d want it for Down East anyway. How about you, Julie? Do some buying for yourself?”
Julie explained that at this stage in her career, she didn’t have the time or money to pursue any personal interests, but that if she did, she would focus on papers and letters rather than artifacts like ceramics.
“Fits your historian’s interests,” he said. “Easier to read the past from documents, I’m sure. But remember that unlike you, I’m not a trained historian—or a trained museum professional of any kind. Just a retired old software engineer trying to manage a struggling historical society in the boonies.”
While she knew that this self-deprecating remark was offered to encourage a spirited rebuttal, Julie passed.
Hartshorn broke the brief silence: “Of course, you and Betsey Bowers are true professionals. And doing some work together, I understand.”
Was he aware of the missing ceramics at Two Rivers and her work in trying to find them? Julie just couldn’t be sure, but she was sure she didn’t care for the look on Hartshorn’s face—narrowing his eyes, staring directly into hers, almost as if he was daring her to admit something.
“Not really” was all she could come up with.
He paused, but continued the penetrating gaze. Finally he said, “I see. Must have heard that wrong.”
She let the conversation pause again, and then Rich asked Hartshorn if he’d like to make one last run on the refreshments table. Hartshorn demurred, saying it was time he wound his way home.
While Rich moved toward the table, Hartshorn said, “Don’t care to drive in the dark. Always dangerous, especially at this time of year.”
Again that look. Julie wondered if he could be sending her another message, a reminder of when she was forced off the road. But then he smiled and said, “So glad to have a chance to catch up with you. Pleasant surprise. Staying on for the holiday?”
Julie said she was driving to Ryland on Sunday and then heading to her parents’ home in Ohio for Thanksgiving.
“With Rich?” he asked.
She explained they were doing the parental visits separately this year. “So next year you’ll face the young-marrieds dilemma,” he said. “Oh, I remember that well. My wife refused to make the drive to Maine back then, and her family was so close in New Jersey. Those do seem like ancient days. You’re lucky to be young and just starting out. Well, I really should be off. Tell Rich I said good-bye. Hope to see you both again soon.”
Then he was gone.
Rich returned just in time to see Hartshorn leave.
“Grilled him, did you?” he said with a smile.
“I think I was the one being grilled,” she said.
“About?”
“Let me think about it.”
“Find out anything?”
“I’ll give you the rundown over dinner.”
“Unless,” he said, “you’d rather take in a hoops contest first and catch a late bite at home.”
“Not on the cards, Professor. You owe me a fancy meal at one of Orono’s swanky restaurants.”
“Your town, your choice.”
“Actually, there’s a new bistro I’ve heard about. Okay with you?” She agreed. “A nice quiet place for you to reveal the solution to all the items missing from Maine museums.”
“I really should have come to Ryland this weekend,” Rich said on Sunday afternoon as he carried Julie’s overnight bag to her car. “You’ve got a long drive coming up this week. You shouldn’t have had to make this one, too.”
“It’s not a problem, Rich. I like driving, you know that. And I’m breaking up the Ohio trip. Everything will be fine. Did you . . . ?”
“Here it is,” he said, handing her a bag. “I made a few other items and froze them, so with the leftovers from Friday, this should get you through till you leave.”
“Nothing like meals on wheels, especially when you provide the meals and I provide the wheels.”
They embraced, and Julie got into her car and rolled down the window so Rich could lean in for a final kiss. “Be safe,” he said. “And call. A lot.”
Julie said she would. Then she started the engine, backed out of the drive, and headed for the highway. Despite what she had said to Rich, she was not looking forward to the longer drive later in the week, but thinking about it actually made the current drive seem less daunting. At least the weather was good—dry, cool, sunny. Not, she said to herself, like the day she drove home from Portland and got forced off the road.
No reason that should happen today! Well, maybe one, she admitted to herself. Her talk with James Hartshorn. As she had told Rich over dinner last night, Hartshorn’s interest in ceramics, his hints about Julie’s awareness of the Two Rivers thefts, and that she might be working on them, and then his comment about the dangers of driving. James Hartshorn had certainly moved himself higher up on her list of suspects. When she told Rich that he’d changed the topic to the lecture they had just attended, she understood that this was his way of warning off further talk about her investigations. So she had taken the hint and said no more.
It had been a fun weekend and a nice visit all around, but now she was on the road and alone and had time to think about where the various matters stood. As much as James Hartshorn now seemed to stand out as a suspect, Julie didn’t want to ignore the others—Cartwright especially, but Korhonen as well. She recognized that limiting the list to her Maine colleagues wasn’t necessarily justified. Thieves didn’t have to reside where they worked. And then there was the question of whether the thefts were directly linked to Dumont’s murder. Coincidences did happen.
Except for the weather, nothing seemed clear to her. So maybe it would be better to focus on other matters, she thought: the long drive to get to her parents’ house, the visit itself, the inevitable talk about the wedding, the question of what she and Rich would do after the wedding. No, thinking about any of those topics didn’t appeal, either.
Maybe she’d just put the radio on, relax, and concentrate on driving. She knew Rich would approve of that.
Chapter 30
It was never what you remembered or expected, Julie said to herself, but what you forgot or didn’t expect. And in this case it was Connecticut. Pennsylvania she remembered well, and was therefore not frustrated by its length as she drove home from Thanksgiving. She had left her parents’ Ohio River town at mid-afternoon Saturday to split the return drive into two manageable pieces, stopping that night at a rural motel on Interstate 80 two-thirds of the way across Pennsylvania’s length. Between there and Maine for her Sunday drive lay only small states, or small pieces of larger ones: Connecticut, a slice of Massachusetts, an even smaller slice of New Hampshire, and then Maine itself. But why had she remembered Connecticut as small? Around Hartford she decided she had had enough of it, though she knew it would be more than another hour before she hit the Mass Pike at Sturbridge. So here she was, putting in her time, and as usual when she drove, she couldn’t help using it to review and preview.
The review was mixed. Knowing it was the last Thanksgiving she and her parents would spend together before her marriage, they had all tried too hard to make it resemble the many holidays of her childhood, while ignoring the obvious fact that she was a grown woman with a career and life elsewhere—and an impending wedding that at least her father didn’t fully welcome. Her mother accepted the wedding, but regretted its location and her lack of control over it. Ignoring that particular elephant in the room had created other tensions, though Julie credited her parents with doing their best to be cheerful and to keep the focus on their holiday traditions.
Sneaking off to her old bedroom to make calls to Rich at his parents’ home in Boston made her feel like an adolescent, and he had concurred, though his reminder that this was the last year they’d have to do it provided some comfort. Still, the predominant sentiment she felt as she added the miles that took her farther from Ohio and closer to Maine, was sadness.
To offset that, she decided to shift from reviewing the past to previewing what lay ahead: the resumption of the work she loved as director of the Ryland Historical Society, the upcoming board meeting and Victorian Christmas celebration at RHS, a long Christmas holiday with Rich—and, of course, the tangle of thefts and murder that she never mentioned to her parents but that came too often into her mind as she helped to prepare and enjoy the Thanksgiving feast with them and the various relatives and friends who joined them.
