Untitled Document

excerpt from George Washington Stepped Here
(without formatting, unfortunately...)

I didn’t think that Betsy Ross ever lived in Reisterstown, but other than that, I couldn’t really say anything for certain about this 1776 House. So the next day I called Mrs. McGregor for some background, including the address of the site, since the only address I had was the one on her personal check.
“Good morning. This is Karen Maxwell of DS Investigations.”
“Wait while I fix the volume,” a woman’s voice ordered sternly.
WHAM!
I surmised that either she dropped the phone or a large object just flattened her house. Various muffled scraping sounds followed before the imperious voice returned. “Hello?” she asked.
“Is this Mrs. McGregor?”
“Yes.”
“I am Karen Maxwell with DS Investigations. I have a few questions to ask, but I will try not to take up too much of your—”
“Well,” she huffed, “I don’t think I have ever talked to you before.”
“No, ma’am. You spoke with my brother, Dave Sarkesian. I need to get some information from you about the case before I—”
“I thought he was handling the case. He told me he would see to it personally.”
I could almost hear her pout through untold miles of fiber optic phone line.
“This is a matter of some delicacy, you understand,” she continued, “and I do not want it bandied about all over town. That is why I called Mr. Sarkesian instead of the police.”
“I understand, ma’am. Can I get the address of the—”
Her tone grew even more haughty. “Well, I really thought I’d be working with Mr. Sarkesian himself. I’m not sure I should be giving confidential information to you.”
So I wasn’t good enough for her. Fine. Then I would just have pretend to be Dave, in a way. I put a simpering smile onto my face, hoping the expression would come through in my voice. “Mrs. McGregor, I am Mr. Sarkesian’s secretary. I am simply trying to collect information so that he can devote his mental energy to the science of investigation.”
“Oh. In that case, what do you need to know?”
I took down the address of the site and contact information, and she even offered bank account information to authorize monthly withdrawals from her account should the investigation expenses exceed the initial retainer fee. This woman was serious about finding the missing—
The missing thing. Whatever it was. That was what I had to find out next.
“Now, ma’am, I need information about the missing artifact.”
“Won’t Mr. Sarkesian come to discuss the matter in person?”
Not likely. I think he had already dismissed this one as an open and shut case, meaning that she had opened her checkbook and he had shut his wallet with the check inside.
But I came up with an answer for her. “He prefers to be briefed in advance of a meeting so that he has adequate time to think.”
“Oh.”
“So what can you tell me about the missing artifact?”
“Well, no one knows how the thief got it out of the glass case, because only two of us have the key, you know, and I would never steal it, of course, and neither would Ann.” Her words came faster and faster as if she was afraid she would forget a detail. “Ann Bleckenstrauss is the chair of the exhibits committee, so this year she has the other key. But she did say she thought we should have an extra copy—of course she also thought we should donate everything to the Daughters of the American Patriots for safekeeping although I thought if we just put an electronic sensor on the case but when the board discussed the motion they—although Jimmy Reynolds might have persuaded them to put a sensor on the case if he hadn’t been out for hip surgery that week—”
“What case are you referring to?” Yes, it was rude to interrupt the client, but her zealous rant was already driving me crazy. I had a pretty good idea of why Dave had given this assignment to me.
“The permanent exhibits case,” she said pointedly, as if I were a fool not to have already known this. “Well, Ann has keys to all the exhibit cases—”
“But what was in the exhibit case? What was stolen?”
“The Washington notes!” The pitch of her voice rose to an almost painful level. “The Washington notes were taken right from our own locked permanent exhibits case. And that is why I believe it was someone within the Society.”
“You believe a member of the Society stole the. . .could you explain what the notes are?”
“The Washington notes are exactly what the name implies. They are notes that George Washington penned on a piece of leather. When he spent the night in the house.”
I was glad she could not see my skeptical grin. “So George Washington slept there?”
“Oh, yes. And ate at least two meals, possibly three. He planned his campaign from the first bedchamber. And that is why the house is so important.”
“Where did the notes come from? And why would he write on leather?”
“They were written on a piece of leather most likely cut from the bottom of a chair.”
“The Father of our Country vandalized furniture?”
In the pause that followed, I could just about hear her glare at me for impugning the name of the great man. “It was wartime,” she said finally. “He did what he had to do. Now, the notes were found during renovations during the 1920s. They prove Washington’s connection to the house. Without the notes, the house is simply another old building.” The pitch of her voice had returned to normal levels, but she now sounded as if she were choking back tears. “We must have them back. And no one must know that they’re missing, or we will be certain to suffer a reduction in visitors. Everyone comes to see the Washington notes.”
I tapped my pen on my notepad. “If the notes are so important to the house, why would someone within the Society take them away?”
“There are those members of the board,” she sniffed in derision, “who believe the notes to be fake. They have insisted that we should remove them from display until they can be authenticated. The rest of the board, of course, votes this proposal down every year. But I think she has grown so desperate that she would forcibly remove the notes rather than admit they’re wrong.”
“She?”
Her voice dropped to a bitter sneer. “Paula Lowell.”
I took down the name. “So you think Paula Lowell stole the piece of leather.”
“The Washington notes.”
I cringed. “Er, yeah, the notes. Or at least you’re confident they were stolen by someone in the organization?”
“Paula Lowell is a member of the board, as is her sister, Patty. And we cannot deny that she serves with great dedication. But she does not trust any historical fact unless she herself has discovered it. So her dedication is really most trying.” She sighed. “I can only hope that someday she and her sister will find a site more to their liking.”
“Do you think if she finds a new site she’ll return the piece of—the Washington notes? If she took them?”
Her voice grew strident again. “I am not willing to wait for her to decide on a proper time to return them. I want the notes back in their case straightaway. That is why we hired your brother. At the end of next month, the society will finally have the chance to host a visit from Lucinda Fotheringill, President of the Daughters of the American Patriots. We must have the notes back in place by then or the 1776 house will be deemed a sham, an unimportant relic.”
I was certain now why my brother assigned this “case” to me. The woman sounded nuts. And it sounded as if she worked with people who were equally, if not more, insane. Stealing an old piece of leather. Who would go to such lengths? And why would this woman pay $900 to get it back? Dave handed all this craziness to me while he went on to work with more appealing clients.
Before I left that afternoon, I briefed Dave on the conversation.
“You’re doing great.” He layered two anchovies on a cracker and tipped the whole mess into his mouth. “Uff oo oo a oo ob, ah an et oo av or ases.”
“Can we try that again? I’m not very fluent in cracker.”
He swallowed. “If you do a good job with this, I can let you have more cases. Take the lead on them.”
“Great.” I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. But regardless, I still had to take care of the administrative work, or none of us would have any cases. I dropped a file on his desk. “You need to sign these, put them in the attached envelopes, and drop them in the mailbox before you leave.”
“Sign, envelopes, mailbox. Got it.”
“See you!” I put on my sunglasses and started for the door.
He opened the folder. “Oh, yeah. Hey, thanks for taking that hysterical society lady off my hands. I’ve got enough to do with the Petrinelli case.”
“You mean you’d rather spend your time trailing the very attractive Mrs. Petrinelli rather than listening to poor old Mrs. McGregor.”
He grinned. “You’ll have a great time with the kids tomorrow. The old lady told me all about the house and lovely garden. They even demonstrate how to cook over an open fire. I’m sure you’ll pick up some great tips for the kitchen.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, not that he could see with the sunglasses I was wearing. “You owe me, buddy.”
“Just think of this as a test, Karen.”
“And you the teacher. Now that is scary.” But I smiled as I walked out. For all his obnoxious behavior, my brother was a pretty successful investigator, probably because he has a remarkable ability to understand what motivates people. Me, for instance. Just the promise of more interesting work was enough to induce me to give up a weekend afternoon. I knew I could do a good job with this case. In one visit, I would find the thief and get her to confess and cough up the piece of ratty leather before the weekend was out.
All I had to do was convince my kids to go along with it.