didn’t help her state of mind that Brainert had phoned her requesting information, and mentioned that I was headed for the Chesley mansion.
I told Sadie that I’d made it in and out of the mansion in one piece, and had an encounter with Peter’s son, Raymond. I left out that nasty part about being run off the road, and being admitted to the hospital. No need to trouble my aunt now, she’d only make herself sick with worry.
“Garfield Platt came by the store this afternoon,” Sadie said. “He gave me the keys from behind the register. Found them in his jacket this morning, he said. He figured he must have walked out with them on Monday when he left work.”
“You buy his explanation?” I asked, still wondering if those keys were used by my attacker to get through the back door.
“I believe him, Pen. I believe him because today Garfield gave me his two weeks’ notice—”
“What?”
“He’s leaving. The reason Garfield missed work was because he was busy selling his Web site.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, it’s wonderful for him. Apparently Garfield developed a unique type of software program. It allowed his Web site customers to download novelty ring tones into their phones. He said a young marketing executive at a major Hollywood studio contacted him. They want to use his software exclusively. They’ve hired him to head the ring tone unit, or whatever they call it. I’m so proud of that boy! He’ll be leaving for Los Angeles in three weeks.”
“Well, that’s great,” I said with mixed feelings. I was happy for him, of course, but sorry we were losing a reliable employee. “His parents must be proud. Now he’ll have a chance to explore the world beyond Quindicott while he’s still young.”
“When you come home, I’ll tell you more about it,” Sadie said. “You
“I…I have to do something first.”
“Where are you?” My aunt’s voice was suddenly filled with concern—and suspicion.
“I’m at the hospital, Aunt Sadie.” (No lie there.) “I’m going to visit Brainert, show him the photos I took.” (True again.)
“But how will you get inside, Pen? Visiting hours ended a long time ago.”
“You’d…uh, be surprised,” I replied. “And don’t wait up for me, I may be here all night.” (Again, a statement as true as George Washington could have given.)
“But—” I could hear the concern in my aunt’s voice.
“Gotta go. Give Spencer my love. I’ll see you soon. Bye.”
I climbed out of my bed. The hospital didn’t provide much in the way of clothing—I wasn’t walking the halls in that opened-back nightshirt they gave me—but fortunately I found a terrycloth robe in a plastic bag hanging in the tiny cubicle that passed for a bathroom. I donned that and a pair of blue, rubber-soled socks I found (also swathed in vinyl) in the dressing table.
I retrieved my purse. Then I crept out of my hospital room, into the dimly lit corridor. I didn’t risk taking the elevator, for fear of being spotted. Instead I found the stairwell and went down one flight. The corridors on the third floor were as quiet as the fourth, and I made my way to Brainert’s room without being seen by any staff or patients.
I found my friend sitting up in bed, illuminated by a pool of light, papers scattered across his silver meal table. He squinted through his unbandaged eye at the pages he’d been writing. I had no doubt Brainert was attempting to re-create the research that was stolen from him during the assault.
“I didn’t appreciate your calling my aunt,” I announced. “If I’d wanted to worry her, I would have phoned her myself.”
“Pen, you’re back—” He looked up at the sound of my voice, and the color drained from his face. “My God! What happened?”
I slid a padded fiberglass chair next to Brainert’s bed and told him about my evening, in reverse order.
“You’re sure you were run off the road deliberately? It wasn’t just an accident?” Brainert asked when I was through telling him about my Allstate moment.
“Trust me, this was no accident. The driver rammed my bumper at an angle, just enough to push my Saturn off the ramp and into a tree. I didn’t get a look at the driver, but I know before I passed out that he got out of his vehicle and searched my car. He was looking for the treasure, Brainert. I’m sure he thought I’d retrieved it at the mansion.”
“Did you?” Brainert asked excitedly.
“We’ll get to that later.”
Brainert nodded. “It sounds as if your attacker was lying in wait for you.”
“Apparently. Unless it was Raymond Chesley, in which case he followed me. He did have a motive to kill his father, and he pretty much fits the description of our mutual assailant, down to a raspy voice caused by a bad case of the sniffles.”
“What about Claymore Chesley? Could he have been stalking your movements?”
“That seems really unlikely. What is possible, however, is that he had your code-breaking papers and figured out what the treasure was. He could have arrived at the mansion to steal it, but saw me leaving and assumed I’d gotten it first.”
“Yes, Pen, yes. That’s very possible.”
“I have one more theory,” I said. “Did you know that Nelson Spinner was working for Peter Chesley, helping the old man archive his extensive library?”
Braniert blinked. “I had no idea.”
“So Spinner never indicated to you that he may have had direct contact with the Phelps editions, or that he knew the books were in the Chesley mansion?”
“Never,” Brainert replied.
“Now tell me one more thing. This is very important. Did you contact Nelson Spinner tonight?”
“Yes, I did. I called him and asked him to research a piece of information for me. He refused. Said he had papers to grade—”
“What time was this?”
“Right after you left for Newport. When he turned down my request, I immediately called Sadie and she helped me out.”
“Did you tell Spinner that I was going to Newport?”
Brainert paled. “I…mentioned it to him…in passing…oh, my God, Penelope, you don’t think my colleague…”
“Yes, I do, Brainert. And I’m sure you boasted that you were on the verge of solving the Poe Code mystery —”
“Not on the verge. I
I drew the cell phone out of my purse, called up the images on the tiny screen. “There were four portraits on the wall, hanging above a Victorian-era globe that was definitely a part of the Mystic House collection. Look at the images and tell me what you see.”
I handed Brainert the phone. He studied the artistic renderings, first. “Nothing here,” he said with undisguised disappointment.
Then he shifted to the first photographic image.
I rose to look over his shoulder. “I think I’ve seen this photo before,” I said.
“It’s not a photo, Pen. It’s a daguerreotype—silver etched on glass,” Brainert clarified. “And this”—he tapped the cell phone screen—“has to be a copy, made of paper. This image is not new. It’s well known, taken in the final year of Poe’s life. The original is in the Brown University Library collection.”
“He looks a mess,” I said. “Bags under his eyes. Hair uncombed. His vest is unbuttoned.”
“The image was taken locally. Poe was visiting Providence to woo a woman named Sarah Helen Whitman. He wanted to present her with a photo. Sadly, their affair ended tragically; and, before another year passed, Poe was dead—he died raving in a Baltimore hospital, probably suffering from acute alcohol poisoning and the throes of
