I never did find out what happened to Robby.
* * * *
I finished the last hem and shook out the filmy curtain. Next came the embroidery along the bottom hem, as well as the tailored valances that would top the window treatment. But first I needed to wash the sateen fabric for the valances. I bundled up the curtain and headed up to my sewing room to get the sateen.
The door to my sewing room was closed, even though I always left it open to dispel the mustiness of the ancient carpeting. I paused in front of the door, frowning. Maybe Louise had closed it in a fit of tidiness, although she truly didn’t seem like a tidy person to me. I reached for the door handle, hoping that Randall wasn’t waiting inside to “talk things over” with me.
I threw open the door and scanned the room from the doorway. Nothing seemed to be amiss. Maybe I had closed the door, and just forgotten. I gathered up the sateen and headed down the three floors to the basement.
I ran into Cherry on the way down.
She thrust a microphone in my face and signed the silent man following her to begin filming. “What are you doing now”—she consulted a paper on her clipboard that had a series of head shots on it—“Daria?”
I held up my fabric. “I’m headed to the basement to wash this fabric. It’s always important to launder any machine-washable fabric before sewing. If you neglect this step, the seams could pucker if the fabric shrinks when the finished garment is washed.” I smiled at the camera, sure that no one could possibly care about my laundry endeavors.
Cherry must have come to the same conclusion, for she flashed a hand sign to her cameraman that could only mean “cut.” “Very good,” she said to me, and hurried on her way.
I marveled all the way down to the basement. I’d never been involved in filming a TV show before, so this was all eye opening to me. Cherry and her crew were taking hours and hours of footage, which would then be distilled down to one hour-long episode. It seemed like a monumental task.
I located the washer and dryer in the basement, along with a slimy bottle of liquid detergent. Either Carl Harper hadn’t gotten to these modern appliances yet, or the show’s producers decided that renovating the main floor was good enough. I shoved the fabric into the washer and started it up.
I noticed a kitty litter box in the corner, although I hadn’t seen any cats since I’d been working in the house. They were probably spooked by all the commotion of the renovations, not to mention the chaos surrounding Professor Burbridge’s death. I started searching around the corners, calling, “Here, kitty, kitty” in my most persuasive voice. I didn’t flush out any kitty cats, but I did notice a strong smell of smoke when I approached the boiler. Worried about the possibility of fire, I poked around, trying to discover the source of the smell. A thin stream of smoke drifted up from a fresh pile of ashes in a metal bucket next to the boiler. Next to the bucket a manila folder lay discarded on the floor. I picked it up and turned it over to read the label: “Treason.”
Chapter Four
I stared at the empty file folder. Last time I’d seen it, it was in a box in the library along with other files that Professor Burbridge had compiled. But it had been full to bursting then. I stirred the smoldering ashes in the metal bucket. It didn’t take a detective to deduce that the contents of Professor Burbridge’s file were right here in front of me. What I didn’t know was, why had someone burned them?
I looked all around the basement, but I didn’t see any other manila folders, either empty or full. The ashes in the bucket were so thoroughly burned that it was impossible to tell what had been written on them. I frowned at the folder in my hand, wondering if Randall was culling the professor’s files in this fashion. What right did he have to mess with the dead man’s research? I laid the folder on the dryer and searched for a sink to wash my hands before transferring the fabric into the dryer. I didn’t know if I was going to confront Randall or not, but I did want to peek into that file box once more and see if any other files were missing.
* * * *
The library’s open door invited me in. Randall was nowhere to be seen. He was probably at dinner with Fiona, turning up his nose at another beloved Laurel Springs restaurant. I slipped into the library and eased the door closed behind me. The stack of file boxes appeared to be untouched on the floor. I shifted the top two boxes to get to the bottom one, the one marked “Summer Term.” But that wasn’t right. That box had been on the top of the stack. Obviously Randall hadn’t put them back correctly. I checked the other two boxes. The “Library” box was on the top, and the box labeled “Major Samuel Compton” came second. I lifted off that lid and peered inside. There were only two files remaining: the ones labeled “Sources” and “Letters.” Wasn’t there something about a battle? I thumbed through the two file folders. “Sources” contained a pile of handwritten pages listing books, magazine articles, and various websites having to do with Major Compton. “Letters” contained just that: pages of photocopied letters written either to or by the major in flowing, old-fashioned handwriting. At the back of that file I found a sheaf of notebook paper covered with more modern, indecipherable handwriting. It looked to be an outline. I could just make out the title, “The Hero Exposed.” I was fanning through the pages, trying to make sense of the handwriting, when I heard a step just outside the door. I whirled around, clutching the pages behind my back, trying to think of some excuse as to why I was trespassing on Randall’s domain. But it wasn’t Randall who came through the door.
A tall, thin young man with an outdated haircut and black horn-rimmed glasses stood on the threshold and gazed at me. He wore a short-sleeved white dress shirt and khaki slacks with green tennis shoes and no socks. He looked too clean for one of Carl Harper’s construction crew, and too casually dressed to be a member of Randall’s law firm. I stared at him at a loss.
“You must be Mrs. Pritchard,” he said, entering the room and giving me a tentative smile. “I just needed to know where I could find some boxes or even plastic bags to pack up the professor’s things.”
For an instant I thought about impersonating the housekeeper, but then I thought better of it. As McCarthy pointed out to me once, “Unless there’s a good reason to lie, it’s always safest to tell the truth.”
“I’m not Mrs. Pritchard. I’m Daria Dembrowski, the seamstress.” I kept the professor’s papers concealed behind my back, trying to think of some convincing reason why I might be holding them. “Maybe I could help you find some boxes.”
The young man started shuffling through the piles of papers on the desk. “That would be great. I’m Noah. Noah Webster.” He shot me a glance, half-sheepish, half-defiant, clearly expecting me to comment on his name. After years of enduring chants of “Hairy Daria, Dumb Brewsky” in school, I had zero interest in ribbing anyone about a funny name. I settled for the mild query. “Are you a colleague of the professor’s?”
Noah smiled widely, in relief, no doubt. “I’m one of Burbridge’s grad students. Or was.” His face clouded. “I’m working on my PhD in history. Burbridge was my adviser. I don’t know what will happen to my chances, now that he’s dead.”
I bent over the Major Compton box and slipped the pages I held back into their place without him noticing. “This box seems to have a lot of room in it. Could you put some other things in here?”
Noah glanced at the box and nodded. “I suppose there’s no use in trying to preserve Burbridge’s system.” He flashed me that wide smile again. “He was an incredibly disorganized person. Veritably the absentminded professor, in fact.” He sat down heavily in the desk chair. “God, I’m going to miss him!”
I hovered by the file box, not quite sure what to say.