Guilt crept up on me overnight and I still felt bad by the time I got to work. Somehow it seemed wrong to enjoy a date with Ethan and revel in his lack of arrest when Lance was still dead. Sure, he was a jerk, but he was a dead jerk and no one deserved to die the way he did. That I didn't feel upset about it worried me slightly until I once again, reminded myself of the horrible way Lance behaved towards me.
Entering through the main doors, I waved to Karen and hurried upstairs before she could ask me what I found out about Ethan's supposed arrest. I would tell her soon but I wanted to speak to Artie before I lost my nerve. Fortunately, he was already in his office, and the door was partially open so I could hear him on the phone. I knocked and he waved me in. Taking a seat, I waited until he was finished.
"That was the board. They want to know what day we intend to reopen next week," he said when he set down the phone. "George is concerned about the lost revenue," he added with a shake of his head. It wasn't the first time either of us had heard George's grumblings about the money the museum was, or wasn't, making.
"Has Detective Logan cleared us?"
"I thought he did but he's coming by to take another look at the crime scene. Do you think we'll ever look at the exhibition room and not see a crime scene?"
"I hope so," I said. "But it'll be a long time."
Artie sighed. "I thought as much. What can I do for you? You look troubled. Do you want to take some time off? I'm sure we can swing you a couple of personal days. I wish you would persuade Karen to take some time off too."
"That's kind of you, but no. I wanted to speak to you about something a little sensitive."
"The promotion? Don't worry about that. The board will come to their senses any day now."
"No, no, not that. I've barely thought about it," I protested again, although I had thought about it several times. I still didn't know what to do if I were offered the position.
"I'm surprised they haven't offered it to you already. I suppose they're aware of how it looks. Wait! You're not thinking of quitting now, are you?"
"Not at the moment," I told him, although that too crossed my mind. Did I want to stay at the museum where I'd been passed over in favor of a mediocre man for no apparent reason? That didn't build up my confidence in the board. They might do something just as awful in the future. However, if I left, where would I go? Again, I was up against the obstacle of my career. Calendar was hardly bursting with museums. I could start one but that was a grandiose idea that required a large amount of funding with little or no guarantee it would pay off. I could get a job somewhere else but that would involve long commutes and pulling the girls out of school and relocating. Perhaps I would have to retrain before I could change careers. None of those ideas seemed an appealing option. Maybe I could consult for museums from a distance? That could work. I had to shake the idea from my head. Right now, I had to deal with the issue I came to discuss, not plan my future. "It's about Lance," I faltered.
"What about him?"
"I feel awful saying this but..." I stuttered to a stop. What if I got it wrong? I'd be accusing a man who couldn't defend himself. No, I was sure I was right. I played out that moment on the mezzanine a hundred times in my head. He took a book and Detective Logan and I confirmed eight books were missing. What Karen also witnessed only added to my certainty. Then there were the jibes Lance made at Ethan. Lance was definitely up to something.
"Spit it out. This isn't like you, Tess. You're a straight talker."
"Do you remember I thought Lance had taken a book the night he was killed? I don’t think it was a one off. Several books are missing. I can’t prove it absolutely but I feel certain Lance was stealing from the museum," I said, the words tumbling out in one long stream before I clamped my lips shut. Silence hung between us thick and uncomfortable. Artie stared at me until I dropped my eyes, studying my shoes.
"I know," said Artie softly.
My head shot up. "You know?"
My boss nodded. "I've suspected it for a few weeks now," he confessed. His shoulders sagged and he seemed to deflate as he sank into his chair.
"I don't understand. Why didn't you say anything? You didn’t even say anything when Karen told us she caught Lance opening display cases!"
"I hoped I was wrong." Artie breathed out and mashed his mouth. "I wanted to be wrong. I couldn't believe it. Plus, if it were true, I would have to inform the board and his uncle. There would be a police investigation and the insurers would send in their people. It would ultimately turn into a terrible scandal. There was no way to fix it without causing embarrassment all the way around. Then with Lance murdered… I didn’t know what to do!"
"You're absolutely certain Lance was stealing?"
Artie nodded. "I caught him red-handed!"
"Artie, you better tell me what's been going on."
"It was six weeks ago. I was closing up one night. You had already gone home and I thought Lance left too. I left my pen somewhere -- the one my daughter bought me -- and I remembered where it was so I went there to get it and there Lance was, lifting one of the little trinket boxes out of the cabinet. He put it in his jacket pocket and closed the case. When he turned around, he saw me in the doorway, watching him. Of course, he blustered some story about noticing it needed fixing and a volunteer must have damaged it as he tried to hide it. He said he would repair it before anyone knew."
"Since when is Lance an authorized repairer of antiques?"
"I asked him almost exactly the same thing. I told him to put it back and give me the keys. He did and I walked him out but I've kept my eyes open ever since. I never caught him again. He must have been on alert or else he got smarter. I couldn't be totally sure."
"Why didn't you say something to me?"
"I don't know. Maybe for the same reason Karen didn't."
"The night Lance died, I saw him putting a book in his jacket pocket. Detective Logan said there wasn't one on Lance's body when he searched him. He helped me audit the library and there are eight books missing. That's what I wanted to tell you when Karen interrupted us with the news about Ethan. He wasn’t arrested, just helping Detective Logan," I explained.
"Glad to hear it. Eight books! My goodness! You think Lance took all of them?"
"I am sure he took one. I can't be certain that he took them all but now I think about it, it would be a lot easier to steal books than a one-off object that would be quickly noticed. Who would miss a single book? We must have more than a thousand!" I waited for Artie's reaction, surprised that he wasn't as steamed as I was.
"I feared this," he said after a long pause. "I wanted to believe he hadn't actually stolen anything although I suspected he attempted to. I couldn't see anything missing and believe me, I checked. I trust you, Tess. If you say he stole it, I believe you. Damn! I'll have to inform the board now. There's no hiding something as big as this."
"I'm so sorry."
"The only person who should be sorry is Lance and there isn't anything we can do about him now. Have you informed the police of your theory?"
"Yes. Detective Logan was with me when we audited the library."
"I wish I said something earlier but with only the one incident, it didn't seem enough. I figured the board wouldn't listen without any evidence and I sure as heck didn't have any. I thought by catching him I scared him and his light fingers away from swiping things that weren't his. Then with Lance's promotion at the party, the opportunity was gone. And now his murder!"
"Artie, I think this could all be tied together. The thefts, his murder..."
"You could be right. I wouldn't be surprised if that is what Detective Logan thinks too. I'll give him a call after I speak with the board."
"I hate to put you in this position."
"I wouldn't be if I'd spoken up sooner. I have to accept responsibility for that. I'm still the Manager and the buck stops with me." Artie shuffled upright and rearranged a few items on his desk. "Thanks for bringing this to my attention. I'll let you know what happens."
"Perhaps I should speak to the board too? Tell them what I know? Karen should as well. They can't argue with three witnesses."
"I'll deal with them for now but I'm sure they'll want to talk to you both too."
I knew when I was being dismissed so I rose. With one last apologetic glance, I left Artie to think over the huge problem Lance created for us. I was sure the board would be furious that we allowed the thefts to occur, possibly for the first time in the museum's history; and with only our side of the story, it would be hard to drop all the blame on Lance. They might even think one of us was covering up the thefts by impugning a man who could no longer defend himself. I laughed silently and shook my head, sending my curls flying. The very idea of Artie, Karen or me stealing was ludicrous.
What would really help prove the case was if the stolen books, or any other items we had yet to discover, were found in Lance's possession. Detective Logan and I had already taken a cursory look around Lance's office but we didn't know what we were looking for at the time beyond a book of some description. Now I had a list.
I hesitated outside my office, then turned and walked into Lance's, closing the door behind me. Detective Logan never said it was off limits and even if it were, I still went in.
This time, I paid closer attention. None of the books were in plain view and it would have been easy for Lance to explain their presence if they were. He could have easily claimed idle curiosity or an interest in loaning them to another museum to entice publicity. Somehow that didn't fit though. If Lance stole the books to sell, he wouldn't want to be associated with them in case the thefts were discovered. That meant he would have hidden them.
Starting with the bookcases, I pulled out binders and the odd book, checking behind them and even inside them in case Lance stashed one of the old books out of sight. I even dragged over his desk chair and checked the tops of the bookcases but there was nothing but dust bunnies.
Tugging the chair back to the desk, I walked around it to the side where Lance once sat. I felt under the desk top for any concealed packages like a spy in a thriller, and pulled the drawers from their casements, checking for false bottoms or envelopes taped to the underside. Finding nothing, I fitted them back into the desk. Then something clinked as it slid around the top drawer. I pulled it open again and reached inside, finding a set of keys. Lance's spare keys! Of course! He kept a spare set in the office ever since he misplaced his regular set at lunch just a month after his hire. The regular set was returned to him the next day but he must have preferred to keep the spares somewhere accessible just in case.
Closing my fingers around them, I wondered if the thought fluttering in my head was the right course of action. Legally speaking, it probably wasn't. If I entered Lance's house, wasn't that trespassing? Yet who could stop me when the tenant was dead? Who’s to say I didn't have an open invitation? I shuddered. The last thing I would ever want was an open invitation to Lance's home.
Standing still at the desk, I thought some more. Since Lance was killed here at the museum, his house wasn't considered a crime scene. That meant I wouldn't be compromising any evidence and Detective Logan never said Lance's home was off limits. I knew Lance lived alone, but I wondered if that were out of choice or because no one could tolerate him. If I got in and out very quickly, no one would ever know I was there.
Pushing the drawer closed, I hurried out of the office before I changed my mind. Artie's door was shut so I didn't call to him to say I was going out. I jogged downstairs but instead of exiting through the lobby, where Karen might ask where I was going, I left via the parking lot exit.
Lance had an apartment in a converted Victorian house. He bragged about its size a few times and loudly wondered how anyone could live anywhere else in town, which I took as a thinly disguised insult to my neighborhood. I once shared a taxi home with him after a late-night event -- a taxi that was thoroughly inconvenient since it was completely out of my way and he stiffed me with the bill -- so I knew the street where the building was. I couldn't remember the number of the house, but I was sure I would recognize it.
After walking four blocks, I turned onto the street and kept a careful eye out for Lance's building. Halfway along, I spotted the house with the stunning magnolia tree across the road. I jogged over, keeping an eye out for any nosy neighbors, and stepped onto the porch, the keys in my hand. There were three to choose from. The door looked original and the fixings remained the same. I picked the big brass key and slid it into the old lock, pleased when it opened without any problem.
The lobby had lovely parquet flooring and a chandelier that must have weighed a staggering amount hanging over an antique table that was buffed to a high sheen. Two doors labeled A and B led off the lobby and a staircase curved up. I had one key and I didn't know which lock it fitted. Spying a small stack of mail on the table, I rifled through it until I found an envelope with Lance's name. Apartment C.
Moving upstairs, I was more than aware of how quiet the building was and how loud my footsteps sounded as I stepped onto the second floor. A large landing with a loveseat under the window overlooking the street, had three doors leading off it. Apartment C was on the right. I slipped the key into the lock, opened it and paused, waiting for an alarm to blare or someone to ask what I was doing. When nothing happened, I stepped inside, my heart thumping audibly.
Lance's apartment was exactly what I expected. Living room with French windows overlooking the rear garden and sparsely furnished with a black leather couch, a cabinet, a glass coffee table and an enormous television. There were a few magazines tossed around, but nothing about antiques or rare books. Mostly his interests seemed to be shoot 'em up games and action films. Not exactly the cerebral fare of a museum geek. I smiled at that. My collection of mystery films and interior decor magazines probably didn't scream "Museum Deputy Manager" either.
Before I started my search, I tugged my sleeves over my hands, creating makeshift mittens so I wouldn't leave any prints. If I'd thought about it a bit more before I got the hare-brained idea, I would have grabbed a pair of white gloves from my office.
The cabinet doors concealed the debris of life: spare pens, more DVDs, a few paperbacks, a pack of playing cards, and a box for headphones. On top were several travel brochures and when I looked through them, I found a ticket to Hawaii and a reservation for a swanky hotel. Putting them back, I repeated the same checks I made in Lance's office on the underside of the sideboard and ran my hands down the crevice between the back and the wall but there wasn't anything there.
The idea of searching Lance's bedroom creeped me out so I avoided that and made for the kitchen next. His refrigerator had a six-pack of beer, a dozen condiments of varying degrees of spicy, and some meat that was already a week past the expiration date. A search of his cabinets produced nothing more than the knowledge that Lance was a hot sauce aficionado. I never saw so many bottles of the stuff or the lack of anything to actually put it on. His coffee machine looked like it belonged in a fancy coffee shop with more knobs and levers than I could fathom using. After checking the oven, I was fairly sure he never used it. The trash revealed several dirty takeout containers, a lovely shade of green mold growing on the leftovers.
"Nothing," I said out loud as I wrinkled my nose to the smell. Turning around, I asked the still apartment, "Where did you hide the books you stole, Lance?"
I checked the bathroom next but besides the bath panel, which was wedged firmly in place, there weren't any hiding places. Every last inch of the bathroom shelves was taken up with expensive aftershaves, moisturizers and other manly-scented products that put my cleanse-and-go routine to shame.
That left the bedroom. I held back my shoulders and strode in, hoping I didn't find anything revolting. Lance's bed was metal-framed with a clear twelve inches of space underneath it. The nightstands were also open metal styles, each topped with a matching lamp. His closet revealed racks of clothing and footwear. I rummaged through everything, noting the high-end labels that he couldn't possibly afford on his salary alone, and the plethora of watches and cufflinks, all neatly arranged in a show case. Not only was his skin routine much more involved than mine, his wardrobe was demonstrably better too. I never saw a man's closet with far more items than a woman's. Now it occurred to me, there wasn't anything to suggest a woman had ever been in the apartment. No earrings on the nightstand. No deodorant in the bathroom. No drawer in the bedroom for a few essentials so she didn't have to haul her things to and fro.
More importantly though, there weren't any books or artifacts that I could attribute to the museum. There weren't even any catalogs, pamphlets, or guidebooks that suggested any interest in antiques and collectibles. If I hadn't seen him putting the book in his jacket, I wouldn't be convinced he was a thief at all. Was it possible Lance's partner was the brains behind the operation? Did Lance steal to order from someone who knew what they were looking for but couldn't access the museum as readily as he could? That was a possibility, I decided as I let myself out of the apartment, careful to lock the door behind me and wipe the handle with my sleeve-covered hands. At the top of the stairs, I listened for footsteps or voices to suggest anyone in the neighboring apartments were home and when I was assured everything was quiet, I jogged downstairs and went out, turning to pull the door shut behind me.
When I straightened, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I wasn't alone.
"What are you doing?" asked the man behind me.