Chapter 9

“Don’t tell me of luck, for it’s judgment and pluck

And a course that will never shirk

To give your mind to it, and know how to do it

And put all your heart in your work.”

-Motto on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s study wall

The security system in the library used the same older model trip alarms on all the windows. I reached up and flipped the alarm switch to the “off” position on one of the windows on the north side of the room- in case I wanted to get back in unannounced at some later date.

I really didn’t know what I was looking for. Tom had the diary with him when he fell. I believed that whoever pushed him had taken it. Maybe that person had replaced it in the secret drawer in the desk where Tom had found it. First I rifled all the drawers, but, like Dodd, found nothing. I carefully examined the desk, looking for any ingeniously devised hidden recesses that the 18th century furniture makers might have included for their wealthy clients to hide their money, treasures, wills and deeds. I knew quite a bit about these secret hiding places and compartments from my insurance investigator training. They’d taught us how to locate trick hinges and hidden springs. Auntie Elizabeth complains that I’ve learned more stuff - for good or bad - since I’ve been in the insurance game than when I was in the towers of academia. Today I was glad for it.

I removed all the drawers and felt around their housings. I quickly located one hidden space, then another. Both were empty. Often there were multiple hidden recesses, so I continued to search and feel, looking for hinges or levers. There might be more, but I wasn’t clever enough to locate them. Whoever took the diary may not have tried to hide it. They might have put it in plain sight a la Poe’s The Purloined Letter or Conan Doyle’s, A Scandal in Bohemia.

I glanced at the bookshelves, wondering where to begin. Nothing stood out. The books were in excellent condition, dusted and well cared for with nothing out of place. I started in a systematic pattern at one end of the room on the first floor. Since the diary was smaller than most of the books, I hoped it would be easy to spot.

At a soft knock at the door, I turned to see Mrs. Toller enter with a tray of sandwiches and some iced tea. She placed the tray on a table and smiled. “’Tis late, an’ I thought you might like something to eat.”

I thanked her and dived into the cold chicken salad that she’d put on a bed of lettuce. Made with walnuts, red grapes and curry, it tasted fabulous. The cloth on the tray was Buchanan plaid, the plaid of my own Clan. I mentioned it.

“Aye, that’s Andrew’s Clan,” she beamed. “An’ I’m a Stuart. Nice to know another Buchanan.”

“We didn’t have any blood feuds, did we?”

She giggled. “An’ if we did, we’ll have a blether about it later. You’re with that nice Mr. Joyce, aren’t you? How is he doing?”

“He’s still in a coma. They don’t really know the extent yet of all his injuries.”

“Funny. I was a-telling him only this morning about the Dowager an’ how she fell down the stairs here. Who would have known he’d be falling as well.”

I choked and had to put down the sandwich. “You mean she fell down the stairs, too?”

Mrs. Toller shook her head. “Not those same stairs, o’ course, mind you. She tumbled down the main staircase. Fell bahooky and broke her neck.”

My napkin dropped to the floor. “That’s how she died?”

“I ne’er could understand why she was trying to navigate those stairs by herself’. She always called Nurse Holder or meself to help her.”

“You were working here then?”

“Oh, aye. Andrew and I have been with the Grange family near 40 year come October. We came back to windying Chicago a year or so ago with the Dowager from The Haven. Mind, that’s their estate in Wisconsin.”

I sipped her strong iced tea as we talked about the Wisconsin estate. She said it was up near Trout Lake along the boundary of one of the national forests. “It’s a wild and free setting, like it must’a been in pioneer days. They don’t allow any automobiles on the estate.”

“Andrew and I do not miss it. We enjoy Chicago. Up in Wisconsin, there’s lots of cheeses, but no Scots and no guid auld Scots food.”

“I’ll bet you miss the Dowager after being with her for all those years,” I said.

“Aye, we do,” she said and a deep furrow appeared on her brow. “She were a lovely and calm lady.”

“Not like Ms. Douglas?” I prodded.

She giggled. “I’ll no speak ill of Ms. Douglas even though truth to tell her ways are different. But mind, the Dowager was wonderful. ‘Tween we two Scots, I do remember how she fussed so the day before she died.”

“Why? What was wrong?” I hoped she’d keep talking. She was a font of information. Maybe she knew something about Tom’s fall.

“She wanted to open a safe in the library. She couldn’a remember the combination. High and low she had me look for it. Mind, the poor auld dear was 87, and her memory was a wee bit missing.”

“You must know everything that goes on here.”

“I do know that Mr. Joyce was excited this morning. He came to our quarters on the fourth floor. Said he was searching the house high and low for something terrible important. But mind, Andrew tells me not to discuss it.”

“Mrs. Toller, what’s your first name?”

“’Tis Jean.”

“Jean, could you tell me if...”

I never got to ask the question. The huge library doors burst open and Officer Whittenhall entered, closely followed by Ivy Douglas. Her red Manolo Blahniks clicked loudly on the marble floor then went silent as she stepped onto the Oriental rug. Jean Toller scooped up the tray and hurriedly exited.

Officer Whittenhall pulled a paper from a file folder. “It seems, Miss McGil, you are here under false pretenses,”

“I...”

“Don’t try to deny it,” Officer Whittenhall interrupted. “This is the report from Billings Hospital. You were impersonating Mr. Joyce’s sister over there. Here you’re impersonating his assistant. I could arrest you right now for False Utterance.”

“Look, I came here to investigate what happened this morning to Tom Joyce. If I’d said that when I rang the bell, I’d still be out there trying to gain entrance. That’s why I said what I did.”

“You mean that’s why you lied. Again. We looked you up,” Officer Whittenhall said. “We know who you are. You have no legitimate reason to be here.”

“Please gather your things and leave,” Ivy Douglas ordered. “And have Mr. Joyce’s car removed from the drive. Miss McGil, I’m putting you on notice. I intend to sue you for slander.”

It didn’t look as if I could talk my way out of this. Anyway I was bone tired and had things to do before going back on surveillance tomorrow morning. It was best I leave. Visions of punching out a few people in this house were swimming in my head, a sure sign my usual even-keel judgment-meter was slipping. I grabbed my things and strode into the foyer.

James Dodd ran over to me. “I returned as soon as I heard what they found out. We’re canceling the contract with Tom Joyce and hiring another appraisal firm to finish the job, so you can tell him not to bother to come back. And if that diary doesn’t show up, we’ll be seeing him in court.”

Toller followed me to the door. “I’m sorry, Miss, but they asked me to escort you all the way out.”

I smiled. “That’s all right. I understand.”

“If you like, I’ll move his van into the garage for a few days until you can make arrangements,” Toller offered.

“That would be fine. I want to look in it for a second.”

We walked along the drive to the Caravan. I unlocked it and checked the front and back seats, the glove compartment, under the seats and between the seats one more time. When I was satisfied nothing was there, I shut the doors and handed Toller the keys.

“Here. Leave it unlocked with the keys in the car. I’ll have someone pick it up. Toller, you know I’m Scots as well. Clan Buchanan.”

“Aye, so I guessed.”

“And please be sure to tell your wife I said thanks.” It was such an innocuous remark. How could I have known that it was enough to get someone killed?