Historically Dead. Greta McKennan
Hall, and when I went in he was on the floor, dead. It was horrible.”
“What is it with you? Are you trying to break the world record for most dead bodies discovered by one person?”
“Yeah, Aileen, that’s my life’s ambition.”
* * * *
I settled in to do some research on eighteenth-century draperies after supper. Without the professor’s drawings, I would have to come up with my own design for Priscilla’s curtains. I felt guilty for focusing on my own mundane needs when the man lay dead, but there was nothing I could do for him now. I was coming to the conclusion that I wouldn’t find anything useful on the Internet when the doorbell jangled. I jumped. If it was Randall, I intended to give him what for.
Aileen obviously had the same thought. She beat me to the front door, which she flung open to crash against the wall. I was thankful that the leaded-glass window in the door survived the impact.
“What are you after now? Oh, it’s you.” She stepped aside to let the new arrival in. “It’s your newspaperman, Daria.”
“Hello, Aileen.” McCarthy stepped across the threshold, filling the hall with his boundless energy. He turned his attention to me. “I heard you discovered a death up at Compton Hall. Are you all right?” News travels fast in a small town, and even faster at a small-town newspaper. McCarthy always seemed to know everything that happened before anyone else did.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” I led him into the kitchen, the heart of my home. “Want some tea?” I fussed with getting the water cold and filling up the kettle while he sat down and watched. “What did you hear about the professor’s death?”
He pulled out his ever-present little spiral notebook, and poked a tiny pencil out of the wire. “I heard the professor died of an apparent heart attack.” He looked at me quizzically. “Anything you can add to that?”
I got out two mugs and pulled out an assortment of teas. He chose Earl Grey, and I went with my favorite, green tea with ginger. “Not really. There was some dried blood on his face, but Jamison Royce thinks he probably hit the corner of the desk when he fell.” I poured the hot water into the mugs.
McCarthy frowned as he dunked his tea bag in the water. “Professor Burbridge was only forty-three years old—kind of young for a heart attack. I understand the coroner’s ordered an autopsy, routine in the event of an unattended death. I hope they don’t discover anything suspicious.” He winked at me. “Wouldn’t want you to get mixed up in another murder investigation.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not mixed up in anything.”
McCarthy stayed just long enough to finish his tea and cajole a favorite song from Aileen. The fact that he had a favorite Twisted Armpits song never ceased to amaze me.
I struggled online for another hour or so before calling it quits. I could not find enough information about eighteenth-century draperies to make a historically accurate decision about the embroidery design for the curtains for Compton Hall. If only I could get my hands on the drawings Professor Burbridge had located. But the professor wasn’t going to be able to help me, or anyone else, ever again.
Chapter Three
I stood before the door to the library the next morning, and hesitated with my hand on the doorknob. I didn’t really believe in ghosts, but a man had recently died in that room, and I was about to go through his belongings. It seemed somehow sacrilegious, even if Professor Burbridge was not noted for his piety. Still, I needed the drawings to continue my work on the curtains. The professor was dead, but the rest of us were still alive. Life goes on, and all that. I pushed the door open and crept inside.
The cleaning crew had done good work. The room smelled fresh and piney, with overtones of bleach. The only evidence of death was a noticeably lighter spot on the faded carpet. The mess of papers on the desk had been neatly stacked into a pile. I gritted my teeth and began sifting through them.
I was surprised to see so many handwritten pages in the pile. Evidently the professor was slow to embrace modern technology. I tried not to pay attention to the content—if I read every page on his desk I’d be there for three weeks. All I needed were a set of drawings, or maybe a description of the drawings—I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for. When I’d gone through all the papers on his desk without finding anything about curtains, I turned my attention to the file boxes stacked on the floor.
The top box was titled “Summer Term.” I knew the professor was teaching a class called American Myths for Oliphant University’s summer term, so I doubted I would find anything useful in this box. Sure enough, it contained files on lecture topics and a section with names of students. Nothing about the house, furnishings, or curtains.
I replaced the lid and shifted the box to get to the next one. This one was titled “Library,” and held files corresponding to the various bookshelves in the room where Professor Burbridge died. Again, no curtains.
The last box on the bottom of the pile was titled “Major Samuel Compton.” It didn’t surprise me that Professor Burbridge was researching Laurel Springs’s hometown Revolutionary War hero and esteemed ancestor of Priscilla and Ruth. It was possible that the professor’s research on the original furnishings of the house could be in this box. I popped off the lid and scanned the bulging file folders within. Their labels read things like “Sources,” “Letters,” “Battle of Laurel Springs,” and “Treason.” I didn’t find anything having to do with the renovation project.
I replaced the stack of boxes and heaved a sigh. Where would the professor have squirreled away the important drawings I needed to produce authentic eighteenth-century curtains?
I checked the desk drawers, but they were filled with office supplies and boxes of old family photographs that looked like they belonged to the Compton sisters rather than Professor Burbridge. I would have loved to spend all afternoon going through those pictures with Priscilla, hearing her tell family stories. Unfortunately, I really didn’t have time for that. I did spare a few minutes to shuffle through a few of the boxes, just to get a glimpse of the old ladies back when they weren’t old. I found a shot from Ruth’s wedding, back in the late 1950s by the look of the style of the gown and bridesmaids’ dresses. Priscilla was maid of honor, wearing a stiff taffeta dress with an off-the-shoulder neckline and a full gathered skirt that fell just below her knees. Her youthful face was almost unrecognizable, except for her sweet smile, which had never changed.
Another photo showed Priscilla standing next to Ruth and her husband in the front yard of Compton Hall. Ruth held a baby in her arms, and a young boy snuggled up beside her. Priscilla wore a tight sweater and a tweed skirt, with her long hair curled up in a bun. She couldn’t have been more than thirty, but she already looked like the maiden aunt. I shuffled through more photos, watching the two boys grow older and their father grow stouter, while in them all Priscilla stood by their side, serene and alone.
I slipped the stack of photos back into the small box. I didn’t know a whole lot about the Compton family, but I did know that Priscilla never married. Ruth married a Philadelphia lawyer some years older than herself. I had a vague memory that he had died seven or eight years ago, while I was in college in Ohio. There was some scandal about his death, but I was in the midst of writing a thesis on the impact of French couture on American fashion throughout the twentieth century, and had no time or inclination to follow the society news from Laurel Springs. The couple evidently had two children. I’d met one of them yesterday, John Ellis. I wondered what the other son was up to.
I replaced the photo box in the desk drawer and slid the drawer shut. This little glimpse of Priscilla’s family history was all very well, but I had curtains to make. I stood up and scanned the room, looking for a place to stow historical drawings. Of course! A long credenza stood along the wall next to the door, overshadowed by deep hanging bookcases built into the wall. Another tall pile of papers on the credenza finally yielded the drawings I needed. Two photocopies of the actual drawings showed a set of dimity curtains framing a mullioned window, done from several different angles. The light curtains were looped up with a set of ruffled tiebacks