The Skeleton Stuffs a Stocking Page 21

  As we finished up our lunch, I found myself staring out the window at the picket line and would have apologized to Brownie if I hadn’t seen he was doing the same.

  “Have you been told anything about the strike getting nastier?” I asked.

  “You’ve heard rumors, too?”

  I nodded.

  “Some of the professors were told that Bostock was going to bring in outside security to break up the picket line. Plus a few strikers have been going on campus for one thing or another, and they’ve heard that those security thugs are going to escort off anybody they find with extreme prejudice.”

  “Why would Bostock do that? The lawsuits alone would cost them huge bucks, not to mention the price of the bad publicity.” I tried to imagine Humphries the Bostock tour guide doing his best to talk up the Bostock Difference after news of a riot went viral.

  “I don’t know,” Brownie said, “but there’s something in the air. If I were on the carnival lot, I’d make sure I had a baseball bat or some other weapon handy, just in case of a clem.”

  “I thought a clem was a dumb towner.”

  “It can also mean a fight between a carney and a towner, depending on context.”

  “Have you seen many clems?”

  “Some. More often it’s towner versus towner, and if it gets beyond that, a bunch of us holding bats usually calms things down. You just never know how things are going to go.”

  The idea of academics rioting seemed crazy, but as I watched the angry-looking picketers, I wished I knew how things were going to go.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  After lunch I drove back home to gather up as much of Sid as could fit in the sugar skull bag. Brownie picked me up a little while later, and we drove to a yellow Cape Cod house on what local real estate agents called the desirable west side of Pennycross. Dr. Sieck answered right away. “Doctors Thackery and Mannix?”

  When we nodded, she waved us inside.

  The professor was several inches shorter than me and built like a little snow woman: a round figure and a round head with close-cropped white hair. Her eyes weren’t quite as black as if they were made out of coal, but they were close enough.

  “Head on into the study,” she said, nodding at an open doorway. “I’ve got tea and cakes ready.”

  Brownie and I walked into the comfortably cluttered study with a desk, a plush sofa, a trio of recliners around a table, and one wall lined with built-in glass-fronted shelves.

  I would have expected those shelves to be filled with books, and the bottom row was, but the contents of the rest of the shelves astounded me. I’d never seen so many McDonald’s toys in my life. I thought I felt Sid taking a picture from inside his bag.

  I recognized a handful from Madison’s Happy Meal days, which is how I realized what the rest had to be, but those were just a small oasis in the middle of what seemed to be a chronologically arranged display.

  “You can blame my collection on the McClelland Museum,” Dr. Sieck said as she came back in with a wooden tray. “A box of these babies came in as a donation, and after we quit laughing at the letter that insisted a box of these chewed-on, beat-up pieces of plastic were valuable pop culture artifacts, I realized something.”

  “What was that?” Brownie said as he took the tray from her and placed it on the table.

  “That they really were valuable pop culture artifacts. Not financially valuable, of course, but as an example of marketing acumen. You see, my primary research interest is historical business practices. I ended up writing quite a few papers about Happy Meal toys: how they spread to other fast food venues; how they became a standard of Disney movie campaigns only for Disney to later distance themselves from McDonald’s because of nutrition concerns; how they played a role in Beanie Baby mania; how a McDonald’s Collectors Club was created, which led to an annual convention. I’ve even done research into the ethics of marketing aimed at children. Somewhere along the way, I started collecting them myself.”

  She looked fondly at her toys then gestured for us to take seats. “But that’s not why you two came, is it?” she said as she began pouring tea. “On the phone, Dr. Mannix said he had some questions about the McClelland.”

  Brownie looked at me, letting me take the lead, so I said, “We’ve both visited it, and we were impressed by the collection.”

  “Impressed or depressed?” She laughed. “Of course, a lot of it is absolute rubbish, and when somebody who collects Happy Meal toys says it’s rubbish, you know it’s rubbish. But there are some very interesting pieces buried amongst the junk. When I first came to Bostock and was the low professor on the totem pole, I was encouraged to volunteer to oversee the running of the museum. The idea was that when a newer new kid was hired, I’d pass it on, but I actually grew fond of that ridiculous accumulation of tax write-offs.”

  “I read a couple of your papers,” Brownie said.

  “At my age, flattery will get you nothing but a smile, Dr. Mannix,” she said with a smile. “Now tell me what’s wrong with my paper.”

  “Nothing,” Brownie said.

  “Come, come, you didn’t come see a retired professor to express admiration for an obscure paper about an obscure artifact.”

  “Brownie, this is your field.” I said.

  “Okay.” He pulled a printout from his pocket. “I found this paper about a suit of armor.”

  She took it from him. “Medieval manufacturing, I remember. I spoke a lot about the museum’s fifteenth century German suit. Some of the bits were missing, and of course there was rust, but it’s not a bad specimen. What about it?”

  He handed her a printed photograph. “This is the armor in the museum now.”

  She looked at the picture. “I don’t understand. They replaced the fifteenth century German with this reject from a renaissance faire?”

  “That’s what I thought, but it’s still labeled fifteenth century German.” He pointed to where the label was clearly visible in the photo.

  “What the hell?!” she said.

  “You referred to a Grover sewing machine in another article, but this is the machine in the museum now.”

  “That’s not an 1800’s Grover!” she said. “It says Singer right there on the machine.”

  Brownie showed her more examples, and she got increasingly aggravated.

  “Enough,” she finally said. “What has happened to my museum?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” I said. Sid and I had decided to omit mentions of murder. Later I’d had the same discussion with Brownie. Keeping everybody on the same page was going to be tough. “Since it seems unlikely that these substitutions were made by mistake—”

  “Yes, yes, I know you’re talking about theft,” she said angrily.

  “Not just theft, but long-term theft and substitution. We’re trying to find out who could have stolen the artifacts and switched them out with lesser items.”

  “Lesser items? What you meant to say is utter trash. Have you called the police? Who’s running the history department these days? Did you talk to them?”

  I said, “We didn’t want to do anything official until we know more.”

  She regarded me shrewdly. “You think it’s an inside job, don’t you?”

  “How could it not be?” I said.

  “You’ve got a point. So what do you want from me?”

  Brownie said, “I’ve got a recent inventory of what’s supposed to be in the museum, and I took pictures of a lot of the actual items. We were wondering if you could help us identify which items have been stolen and maybe give us an idea of what they’re worth.”

  She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “This is going to take some time and concentration. You two scoot and leave me to it.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want help?”

  “I’ll go faster on my own. Just email me what you’ve got. And Dr. Mannix, do me a favor. Take this tray back out to the kitchen and
bring me a beer from the refrigerator. For this job, tea just isn’t going to cut it.”

  While he took care of that, I got Dr. Sieck’s email address and then did some back and forth with Sid. He sent me the picture files from our visit to the museum, and I forwarded them on to Dr. Sieck. When Brownie got back with the beer, he sent what he had and left the printouts as well. Then a text from Sid reminded me of something.

  “There’s one other item that should have been added to the collection about ten years ago, a decorated glass cup from Venice. I don’t know how old it was, but it was supposed to be valuable.”

  “I’ll add it to the list.” Dr. Sieck made shooing motions with her hands and said, “You two can show yourself out. I’ll get you a report as fast as I can. And then…” She pointed at the two of us. “Then I want you to catch the guy who looted my museum.”

  We followed her instructions and scooted.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “How did I do?” Brownie asked when we got into his car.

  “You charmed her.”

  “That was easy—she charmed me first. But were my questions on point? Did I tell her enough without giving too much away? I was trying to be careful, but I might have revealed more than I should have.” He exhaled sharply. “Am I doing this right?”

  I reached over to pat his leg. “Brownie, there’s no rulebook for this.”

  “It’s just that this is a big part of your life, and I want to be a part of your life, and that includes this, and I think that sentence got away from me.”

  “You did fine,” I said firmly.

  “Good. Thank you.”

  By then we’d arrived at my house, and since Brownie had to work a shift at the zoo lights, he dropped me off with a quick-but-sincere kiss. Andrew and a grad student I hadn’t met were working in the living room, so after I hung up my coat, I kept going until I reached Sid’s attic.

  “What do you think?” I asked as he reassembled himself.

  “He did okay, for a rookie.”

  “I was talking about the information from Dr. Sieck, not Brownie’s performance as a sleuth.”

  “We don’t really have any information yet. I mean, she’s just confirming what we’d already figured out about the thefts.”

  I started to argue with him but realized he was right. “Still, she might come through with something new once she goes through the database.”

  “I guess.” He slouched across the couch, and while his bones were still firmly connected, I could tell he wasn’t happy, but I didn’t know how to cheer him up.

  We had two grad students eating dinner with us that night. One was Andrew, who rarely seemed to leave our house, and the other was Mimi, who’d just begun work with Mom. Andrew was determined to bring the conversation over to his dissertation, of course, but Madison was just as determined to keep him from doing so and kept trying to draw Mimi out. Unfortunately, she was apparently so awed to be dining in the presence of two tenured professors that she could barely speak until Madison noticed her sweatshirt.

  “Is that Dio Brando?” she asked.

  Mimi brightened immediately. “You know JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure?”

  Introducing the dual topics of anime and manga instantly brought Mimi out of her shell. I could follow along, thanks to having watched some of the episodes with Madison’s influence, and even my parents joined in out of general interest. That left Andrew out in the cold, though if I’d been feeling kinder, I could have pointed out that there was a Manga Classics version of The Scarlet Letter.

  Finally, when there was a momentary conversational lull, Andrew got a chance to change the subject. He looked at me and said, “Do you have your riot escape plan worked out, Dr. Thackery?”

  Several forks clattered to several plates.

  “Excuse me?” I choked out.

  “I heard that the Bostock strikers are going to fight it out with the scabs at the rally tomorrow. The scabs heard that if they can end the strike, they’ll get tenure track jobs. And admin has planted ringers among the scabs—they’re ex-Marines and such, not real academics.”

  “Where in the world did you get that load of sacrum?” I said.

  “A lot of the grad students were talking online,” he said. “Didn’t you hear about it, Mimi?”

  “I heard there was going to be a rally and that the Bostock union is asking for other academics to come show support, but that’s all,” she said.

  “Yeah, you’re new in the department,” he said condescendingly. “It takes a while to get hooked into the grapevine.”

  “Georgia,” Phil said, “is this true?”

  “There’s supposed to be a rally tomorrow evening, and people are getting jumpy, but that’s a long way from a riot.”

  “Feelings do run high around a strike,” Mom said, her brow furrowed. “Perhaps you should stay away from the campus tomorrow.”

  Madison was looking concerned, too.

  The last thing I needed was to cancel two classes at the last minute, especially so close to the end of the semester, and give the provost an excuse to fire me. Despite her protestations, I wasn’t entirely convinced that she’d been pleased by my speech at the adjunct meeting. “I’ll be fine, Mom. My classes are over by noon, then I’ll have office hours, and I’ll be gone long before anything happens. Which it probably won’t.”

  “Andrew,” Phil said, “do you intend to get involved?”

  “Don’t you think we should be there to defend our fellow academics, Dr. Thackery?”

  “Both sides include academics,” Madison pointed out.

  “Technically, yes, but—” He stopped before he made it worse. “Maybe I better sit this one out.”

  “I think that’s a wise choice,” Mom said. “Now Mimi, can you explain what you mean by a magical girl?”

  My cell phone rang just as we were finishing up dinner, and when I saw who it was, I said, “I’m sorry, I should take this.”

  “Go,” Mom said. “We can clean up without you.”

  “I’ll help,” Mimi said, and Andrew reluctantly volunteered, too.

  I popped into my parents’ office and answered the phone.

  “This is Georgia.”

  “Dallas Sieck here. I have a question for you. You sent me a batch of photos, and Brownie sent me another batch.”

  “Right.”

  “Which batch was taken first?”

  “Mine.” I did some quick figuring. “Brownie took his pictures yesterday or the day before, which was just over a week after I went to the museum. Call it eight days.”

  “Then you should know that sometime in those eight days, somebody switched a Queen Anne piecrust table with a laminate end table.”

  “Are you sure?” I heard the beginning of a harrumph and quickly said, “Sorry, of course you’re sure. I’m just startled by this.”

  “As am I. This is terrible!”

  “Honestly, it’s not.”

  “Excuse me?” she said frostily.

  “We’ve got some suspects for the thefts, but it’s been nearly impossible to eliminate any of them over such a long timeline. Now we’ve got something more concrete.”

  “Oh. I suppose you’re right.”

  “I know you collect Happy Meal toys, not piecrust tables, but do have any idea how a thief would sell something like that? Or really, any of the stolen items. Would eBay work?”

  “That’s an interesting question. I’ll investigate further. But first I’ll finish going through the inventory. I should have a tally for you later tonight.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Only if it helps. I’m counting on you and your colleague to stop this historical leak as soon as possible.”

  “We’ll do our best,” I said and hung up. Obviously solving Annabelle’s murder was the primary aim, but I didn’t have to be a historian to want to stop the theft of bits of history.

  I zipped up to the attic and found Sid listl
essly going through his files. “I’ve got a lead for you.”

  “Please tell me it’s a good one.”

  “The thief has been active in the past eight days.”

  His eye sockets did that impossible widening thing. “How do you know?”

  “The pictures Madison took at the museum don’t match the ones Brownie took. A piecrust table was stolen between the time we were there and when Brownie went.”

  “Oh my spine and femur,” Sid said. “Sit down while I…Just wait.”

  I sat while he clattered his way through screens and lists and more screens. It took half an hour, and right until the last minute, his bones were tense with anticipation. Then he sagged.

  “Coccyx, coccyx, coccyx,” he said.

  “What?!”

  “Before I couldn’t eliminate anybody who’d helped clean the Nichols house. Now I’ve eliminated them all.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “We’d already eliminated the Hoarder Helper crew and the executor for not having access to Bostock. Sebastian Silva is dead. His cranky wife still doesn’t drive, and I can’t see her taking a table onto the bus. The former head of the Office of Development retired to Boca Raton, and his admin moved to Idaho. Then we get to the CSI cleaners, all of whom have long since graduated. None of them live in the area, and unless they’re lying on social media, none of them have been in town recently. Any one of them could have stolen items ten years ago, but not a single one of them could have stolen that table Professor Sieck told you about. I don’t know where to look now.”

  “Coccyx,” I said, running my hands through my hair. “What about the girl who works at the museum?”

  “She’s what, in her twenties? You think she killed Annabelle as a tween? Chasing her down in battery-operated Barbie car?”

  I swallowed the response I wanted to make. “Okay, maybe it’s a gang of thieves. Or somebody’s boyfriend or girlfriend, or a sibling, or…”

  “Georgia, if we start widening the field that far, we may as well start looking at every student, every professor, every administrator, every employee of any kind. Which I could do—I’m not getting any older—but it doesn’t make sense. The thief had to have been one of the people at the Nichols house. But it wasn’t Annabelle, and it wasn’t either of the other custodians. It wasn’t the lawyer for the Nichols family, and it wasn’t the development guy from Bostock or his assistant. It wasn’t Deborah, and now we know it wasn’t any of the student cleaners.”