He stilled. “Unfortunately, yes.” His tone hinted at extreme displeasure.
“So, you knew he was stealing from the museum.”
He took a moment to answer and finally let out a sigh. “Yes. I caught him at it.”
“And he was okay with that?” I couldn’t imagine August would be pleased that his underling could hold something like that over him.
“Not really,” he said grimly. “He threatened to frame me for it if I told anyone.”
“Sounds like an excellent motive for murder.”
“It would be,” he admitted. “Except I have an alibi.” He popped another gummy.
“And it is...?”
“Oh, yes. I was at a pot party.” He chewed enthusiastically.
Of course he was. “Of course you were. What’s a pot party?”
“It’s like a potluck, but everyone brings pot to share. Edibles, smokes, whatever.”
“That’s a thing?”
“Sure. Has been since the sixties. Only it’s legal now. Police already confirmed my alibi.”
Well, there went a great suspect. Darn it. “Out of curiosity, what exactly was he doing? And how did he pull it off? August, I mean.”
“Well...” He chewed thoughtfully. “Like most museums, Flavel House has many items that have been donated throughout the years. Most of them aren’t even on display. It’s easy enough to liberate one or two items from storage and sell them on eBay. I’m afraid security around here is fairly lax. And this is a small-town museum with a small team. Mostly volunteers. Normally it would be years before the theft was discovered, if ever. So, it was fairly easy. Apparently he’d been doing it for months. A vase here. A first edition there.”
“Do you know when he started?”
“Not precisely, no. But from what I can extrapolate, for at least the last three or four months.”
Which jibed with Nina’s observation that August had been able to afford more expensive wine again three months ago. I was surprised, knowing what I did of his lack of moral compass, that it had taken August that long to come up with the idea of stealing the museum’s artifacts.
“One other thing, Mr. Collins.”
“Roger, please.”
Was it just me or were his eyes getting glassy? “Roger. Rumor has it that you were having an affair with August Nixon’s wife.”
“Mary? Oh, yes. For the last two or three years. But it’s all over now.” He gave a long sigh, his face turning into a sad, hangdog expression. “I miss her.” He popped two more gummies. “You have no idea.”
Since I’d never had an affair with anyone’s wife, I supposed he was right about that. I gave him what I hoped was a sympathetic smile. “When did you end it?”
“Oh, I didn’t. She did. About a month ago.”
Which was interesting, since Mary Nixon had claimed they were still an item.
Chapter 15Viola the Snoop
MY PHONE VIBRATED IN my pocket as I parked my car a few blocks away from Flavel House. I pulled it out and glared at the screen glowing in the dark. It was nearly ten at night. I totally forgot that he’d promised to call. “Hello, Lucas.”
“You sound put out.”
Oops. I guess my impatience was showing. “Oh, no, I’m just, ah, busy. Distracted.”
“Busy? Are you writing?”
I didn’t think lying to Lucas was a good idea, but no way could I tell him the truth. He’d lecture me for sure. “More like research.”
There was a lengthy pause. “Are you snooping, Viola?”
“Why would you assume that?” I tried to sound offended, but it was difficult when he’d hit the hammer on the nail so thoroughly.
“Maybe because it seems to be your favorite pastime these days. What are you up to this time?”
I sighed. “I can’t tell you.”
I could almost see him pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re breaking and entering again, aren’t you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Just be careful, okay? Try not to get arrested. Or murdered.”
I laughed. “Everything is fine. Stop worrying. I’ve gotta go.”
He mumbled something about “worrying comes with the job description” before bidding me goodnight and hanging up. I shook my head as I stuffed my phone back in my pocket and climbed out of the car. The Flavel House loomed above me, a dark, spooky presence against the night sky. Everyone had long gone home, and the only light was the soft amber glow of the front porchlight.
I double-checked my kit. Which was technically my cross-body purse. Gloves for preventing fingerprints? Check. Screwdriver for jimmying locked desk drawers? Check. Full charge on phone for photo evidence and flashlight? Check. Excuse for being in the carriage house long after closing? Well, I’d figure that one out on the fly.
I quickly walked the few blocks to the museum and skirted around to the carriage house. I paused at the bottom of the steps leading to the main floor. It was one of those things where the sloping hill created an almost daylight basement effect with the bottom half of the basement exposed rather than underground. I’d noticed on my earlier visit that there were two doors into the basement. One a restroom for visitors and the other marked “private.” I was hoping the “private” door was connect to the main floor somehow.
The lock was flimsy, and I made short work of it with help from a mini bolt cutter—why I had purchased the thing, I didn’t know, but it seemed a good idea at the time.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside before shutting it carefully behind me. Using my phone’s flashlight app, I scanned the basement. Sure enough, there were steps leading upward to another door.
Bingo!
The door was unsurprisingly locked, but it was one of those little knob locks that anyone over the age of five can unlock with a screwdriver. And I just happened to have a screwdriver.
Standing still in the gift shop, I tried to orient myself in the dark. The Louse’s office was upstairs on the right. I winced as the stairs creaked heavily under my feet. Not that it mattered. Nobody there but me and the ghosts. Not that I believed in ghosts, mind you, but
