Engaged in Death (A Wedding Planner Mystery) (23 page)

There was one more summer associate memo that described lengthy trips to the Frick Fine Arts Library to research the paintings the McGavitt family bought and sold over the years. I smirked, as it replicated the same research Tabitha and I had done. Keith had invented some elaborate story as to why the summer intern needed to research the matter.

“I bet
Helene
sent Will in here to find those paintings,” I seethed. “Sylvia trusted him, and he double-crossed her! And it’s disgusting that Hartley withheld the gas accident settlement from Will until he found the paintings for Helene. Will’s settlement was in limbo. He was flat broke. Helene and Shane counted on him to be extra motivated to find the paintings and get his reward. They figured once he found them, he’d turn them over to Helene, and she’d tell Shane. But that never happened. Will couldn’t find them. After Shane died, Will’s settlement probably seemed even more in limbo, and he was desperate to find those paintings for Helene. He would have needed the money even more.”

“What are you doing?” Rachel hovered nervously over my shoulder.

“I’m saving digital screenshots of the e-mails on my laptop. They won’t leave a trail on Keith’s end, and unless he figures out I used his password, we’re safe.” I signed out of Keith’s remote digital office.

“Your theory doesn’t automatically make Helene a killer. She probably thought we wouldn’t notice and Will would fix the house in his role as handyman and find the paintings.”

“And Helene waited all these years to find them before Sylvia died, because no one thought they survived the fire. But then I inherited Thistle Park, and we found that note. We need to find the paintings
now
.”

“If they exist.”

“Rach, if we don’t find them,
we
might not exist.”

I spent the rest of Sunday with my spreadsheets, trying to figure out how many months I could afford to stay at Thistle Park. It didn’t look like many more unless I could secure a hefty loan, which was doubtful now I’d been fired. All of the visions of turning this place into a bed-and-breakfast and wedding venue evaporated in a cloud of debt.

So, on Monday morning, I summoned Zach. We brainstormed cheap fixes to inch the house closer to going on the market. Rachel followed her boyfriend around listlessly with a clipboard and wrote down his suggestions to make the house saleable. She was annoyed I wasn’t going to make a go of it, and she wouldn’t listen to my protestations that I needed to sell it. Her dreams of becoming a real estate agent like Zach were long forgotten; she had her heart set on the B and B idea.

“You’ll have to polish the floors. And remove the peeling wallpaper. It would be better to replace it with something historically accurate. If not, you can just paint it.”

I blew a curl off my forehead in exasperation and Zach stiffened.
Historically accurate wallpaper? Give me a break!
I’d need that money for ramen noodles and health insurance.

“And it would be good to move some of this furniture out, if you can’t reupholster it or afford a professional stager. . . .” He must have felt the heat of my glare. “Right, I guess not. Maybe we can move some of it into the carriage house.”

I hated walking around the house, thinking of ways to make it sell faster, but I doubted a bank would be willing to let me borrow any dough now that my six-figure job was gone and my law school loans were still due. It was almost the end of July, and I’d try to get it market-ready by mid-August.

“If you were willing to grant a gas lease to Lonestar, or one of the smaller fracking outfits, you’d have enough money to keep the house and fix it up.” Zach cautiously sidled up to Rachel as if he knew I was going to have a conniption fit, Mount Vesuvius style.

“I know.” I probably surprised him with my calmness. “And if anyone but Sylvia had left me this place, I might. I’m a little desperate for money right now, but I know how she felt, and I’m going to honor her wishes.” I didn’t mention I was so disgusted with Lonestar after reading the nexus of deceit among Keith, Helene, and Shane that I’d never let them drill.

Zach brightened. “If you guys can actually get this ready, I think it’ll sell. And I can try to sniff out what the next owner will do with the land, but if they lease to a gas company, I can’t stop them.”

Zach left, and Rachel and I spent the rest of the day sponging and stripping off layer upon layer of wallpaper from the rooms that were already peeling.

My phone rang. I moved to the parlor, relieved to take a break. I sank into the fainting couch. It was Tabitha.

“I heard about what happened with Will. I’m so sorry.”

“I might be next.”

“What are you talking about?”

I filled her in on the note confirming Sylvia was murdered.

“That’s ridiculous! You can’t be threatened to find artwork that might not be there. It
could
be in the house, or it could have burned or could have been sold by Sylvia’s parents eighty years ago. The paintings might be languishing in some private collection.”

“True. But if Sylvia was murdered by someone trying to make her reveal where the paintings were, they won’t think twice about killing us. It won’t matter I have no idea where they are. Rachel and I have been over every inch of this place.” I truly felt like I knew every nook and cranny of Thistle Park, since I’d spent weeks checking each seam, trunk, and cabinet.

“Then maybe it’s time to put that idea to bed and for you to leave. I hate to say it, but it isn’t safe.”

Desperation percolated up a thought from the recesses of my brain. “There is one place we haven’t looked. Well, something that could
show
us where we haven’t looked.”

“What are you talking about?” Tabitha must have thought I was losing it.

“Zach mentioned the architect who built this place—Fastwinder?”

“Otto Fassbinder. He was pretty badass.”

“Good, so maybe someone has the architectural plans for the house. They might give us a clue to a good hiding place.”

“You’re a genius, Mallory.”

* * *

The night passed uneventfully. There were no dead people on the lawn, or in the kitchen, when Rachel and I awoke Tuesday morning. I no longer had a job, but now I had a mission: to find the architectural plans for Thistle Park and hope they revealed some secret cubbyhole. I loved a good research assignment and was happy to do it, especially if it kept us alive. I popped my head into the kitchen before I left. The table was lined with tins, each sporting a pastel foil shell.

“Muffins?” I sniffed the fragrant, sweet, fruity air.

“Nope, cupcakes. Someone wanted strawberry. For a baby shower. Maybe this baking thing will work out, even if you don’t stay here and make it a B and B and wedding venue.”

“I hope so.” I smiled at my sister. “I’m off to get the plans for the house with Summer.”

I drove the station wagon to Garrett’s house and Summer bounded out, a small purse swinging from her shoulder. She was uber excited. I hoped this mission wouldn’t be too boring for her.

“Mallory!” She flung open the passenger door and settled in before I could even unlatch my seat belt.

I laughed, tickled by her enthusiasm for a trip into Pittsburgh, something I’d taken for granted. “You’re all ready to go.”

Garrett emerged from his parents’ neat brick ranch. He looked tired, but relieved.

“Have fun,” he said to his daughter, then turned to me. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure.” I left the car and walked to the front landing, out of earshot.

“Dad just called, and it looks like they’ve caught Shane Hartley’s murderer.”

A wave of relief washed over me.
Finally.
An invisible weight lifted from my shoulders, and I almost cried with relief.

“Who?”

“I’m not supposed to say, since they’ve just gotten a warrant for their arrest. It’s—”

He paused and glanced at the Butterscotch Monster, where Summer was staring at the two of us unabashedly. She realized she was caught and gave a sheepish wave.

“Dad, let her go. We’re running late!” She glanced dramatically at her small purple wristwatch.

“Just a second, sweetie.” I leaned in closer to Garrett.

“It’s Bart Tannenbaum.”

“The m—” I started to say, much too loudly, when Garrett gently covered my mouth with his hand.

I turned my back to Summer. “The
mayor
?” I whispered this time.

“Yup.” Garrett nodded. “He was having an affair with Deanna Hartley.”

I gasped. “So he’s the father.” It fit. He was an older man, in a loveless marriage. I could picture Yvette on Founder’s Day studiously ignoring her husband as he led Deanna down the stage to cut the ribbon for the new baseball field.

“Shane wouldn’t let Deanna out of their marriage, so Bart Tannenbaum got him out of it.”

“I’ll never doubt your dad and Faith again.”

Bart must have left Deanna’s house, headed over to Thistle Park and killed Shane before returning home.

“He had his car repainted!” I thought of the black PT Cruiser Yvette Tannenbaum had driven when her father the mechanic dropped off the Butterscotch Monster, and the wood-paneled one that had picked up Deanna at the hospital. But it didn’t explain the other things that had happened.

“What about Will Prentiss? Did Bart kill Will too?

“My dad and I talked about that. Will was probably in the carriage house the night Bart murdered Shane, so Bart covered his tracks. And he probably learned you and Rachel were there the night he killed Shane outside your window, so he left the note to scare you out of the house. You’re lucky he just tried to threaten you and Rachel into leaving and didn’t take it any further.” Garrett swallowed.

I thought this over until little prickles danced up my neck. I whirled around. Summer was staring plaintively out the passenger-side window.

“I’d better go.”

Garrett smiled. “We’re still on for our date?”

I smiled back. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” And I could actually enjoy it now Bart Tannenbaum was behind bars.

* * *

Summer and I headed for the Frick Fine Arts Library in the Oakland neighborhood of Pittsburgh. July was coming to a close, and a few students were already streaming about.

“Are you ready to go back to school?” We climbed the stairs to the building, which looked like an Italian villa. A man and woman were holding a baby near the fountain in front, and the little one splashed his hands in the water and cooed.

“I guess so.” Summer ran her hand self-consciously through her newly shorn hair. “My friend Jocelyn gets back from camp tomorrow, and Grandma is taking me shopping for school clothes. But I don’t want vacation to end.”

We entered the beautiful little library, and Summer stopped in her tracks to look around. “This is awesome.” She turned in a circle. Light poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Books lined both floors, which were open and arranged around a central atrium, where warm wood gleamed. The space was relatively quiet. Only one student sat at a table, a carafe of coffee next to her.

I approached the front desk. “Um, pardon me?” I tried to keep my voice down, which was silly because there were barely any people to disturb.

The young woman standing behind the desk arched her pierced brow. Her hair swayed back and forth in a dramatic genie ponytail atop her head.

“Yes?” She had a pleasant smile.

“I called earlier, about some plans from the architect Otto Fassbinder.”

The woman’s demeanor changed so fast you’d have thought I’d threatened her outright. Her already fair skin turned a shade paler.

“Are you okay?” I was concerned she’d faint.

“Yes!” she snapped. She closed her eyes for a moment then fluttered them open and leaned across in a conspiratorial manner. “You aren’t looking for the records of the McGavitt house, by any chance, in Port Quincy, Pennsylvania?”

“Yup. The very ones. Thistle Park.”

She rubbed her eyes, smearing a trail of green eye shadow.

“We don’t have them.” Her voice was barely audible.

“But I found them in the online catalog.”

The woman looked up as if she expected to be caught. “A man took them out last weekend and didn’t bring them back.”

“Someone checked them out? I just called you guys to confirm you had them. They’ve been missing for a week?”

The woman gave the slightest of nods.

“I bet he wasn’t
allowed
to check them out.” Summer cottoned on faster than I did.

The librarian bobbed her head miserably.

“So he stole them?”

“I only work weekends. No one else knows they’re gone. He wanted to see them, so I got them from storage. You can’t check them out. He asked to make copies, but they’re too big to use with the copy machine. And too fragile. But”—she dropped her voice low—“I let him anyway. Then he wasn’t there anymore. And the plans were missing.”

“What did he look like?” I held my breath.

All of a sudden, the librarian found her bearings. She stiffened and stood up to her full height, besting me in that department by a few inches.

“I can’t divulge any information about patrons.” She looked put out. “Even ones who may have taken things.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, I’m not asking you to tell me his name. Just what he looks like. Young? Old? Heavy? Slim? And he’s not even a patron. Technically, he’s a thief!”

She seemed to consider for a moment. “I guess I can tell you. He wasn’t that old, or that young.” She considered me. “Kinda like you.” I just managed to keep a polite smile.

“Not big. He was kind of average. And he was wearing a hat—a baseball hat and jeans.” She leaned back, uncertain.

“That’s it?” Summer shook her head.

I was glad she was outraged on my behalf.

“What color was his hair? What did he sound like? Did he limp?”

“I—I don’t really remember.” The librarian crumpled again. “I think he had light hair. He was wearing a hat. And I don’t
think
he was limping, but I’m not sure.”

“It’s all right.” I didn’t really sound sympathetic, but I remembered from my evidence class in law school that almost no one remembered what a suspect looked like after the fact.

“I’m going to have to tell my boss I let him take the plans to the copier.” She sat dejectedly. “I was hoping he’d bring them back.”

We left her pondering her fate.

“This isn’t good,” Summer said as we pushed our weight against the heavy wooden doors.

We stepped into the sunshine and drifted back to the station wagon.

“Nope. But if what your dad told me is true, we probably already know who has the architectural plans.” I clapped a palm over my mouth, not wanting to reveal too much.

Summer laughed. “My dad and my grandparents try to keep everything from me, but I find out. I know they arrested the mayor this morning.”

“Summer, you really aren’t supposed to know that.”

She shrugged. “The walls are really thin at my grandparents’ house. Do you think Mr. Tannenbaum took the plans for the house?”

“Maybe.” I hoped it was okay to talk to her about it since she already knew. “The man the librarian described could be him, although his dress usually isn’t that nondescript.”

Her vague recollection could be anyone. Bart, Keith, or even Will Prentiss. Will had been alive last week, and it seemed like Keith and Helene had liked to hire him on a freelance basis to do their dirty work.

We reached the car, but Summer looked longingly down the street to the Carnegie Museum. “Do you mind if we go? Since we’re here?” Her face was so hopeful.