Death at the Museum Read online

  He watched me fill the glass with milk. "I'm hoping it will help me sleep." My voice sounded small in the quiet of the vast house.

  "Perhaps I should drink some then," he mused. Sleep was no longer part of his existence. While there were many busy days when I wished I could skip sleep in order to catch up on life's activities, I could not imagine what it would be like to forgo it altogether, and not just because of the obvious physical needs. Mentally, sleep allowed all of us to check out for six to eight hours, it was the perfect palate cleanser for a cluttered, sticky mind. But Edward was never afforded that vacation from thinking. He had to dwell night and day on his existence. And this evening, that existence seemed to have brought on dark thoughts.

  "Edward, I've been thinking about the bed and breakfast business. I'm trying to devise a plan that will give you some freedom to go about with your day . . . and night . . . without causing a disruption to your existence or to my guests' stays."

  "Is this because of the oranges? I heard that dimwit carry on about it."

  "This is partly because of it. I suppose you could say the incident spurred my thoughts on how to make this whole thing seamless." It seemed I'd stumbled upon my reason for still being awake at midnight. The episode with Dave had made me realize how difficult it was going to be having strangers not just traipsing through the inn for dinner but staying for several nights.

  I picked up my glass of milk and circled around the table to where he remained perched on the counter.

  "I suppose I'll have to limit my juggling, but if I'm someday reborn as a street entertainer, forced to earn a living with my orange tossing talents, then I will blame you for my failure." His boots drifted toward the floor and he stood upright. He was a good head taller than me, even with the vaporous soles of his boots on the ground. His dark brows ruffled in consternation. "And I suppose if your business fails because the guests are frightened by floating fruit and the innkeeper having conversations with thin air, then you'll have no one to blame but me."

  I half nodded in agreement. "Granted, both of us will have to be far more careful. You'll have to stop moving solid objects, which, I'm afraid, includes shooting Newman's ball down the hallway at the speed of light. And I'll have to cut short my conversations with, as you put it, thin air."

  That proclamation made his image waver into a series of light and dark shadows. Whenever he blurred out of focus, I knew he was upset. I'd said something to push him deeper into his melancholy mood. I was fairly certain it had nothing to do with him throwing the ball for Newman. (Although Newman would be a disappointed pup under the new rules.) I wanted to kick myself for not seeing it earlier. Not only did it make sense, but Edward had hinted at it before by mentioning how he preferred quiet evenings when it was just the two of us talking and tossing out teasing insults.

  "Edward, I promise I'll make time for you once the inn is open. There will be nights when all the rooms are vacant (hopefully not too many). The guests won't spend their entire time at the inn. They'll be off enjoying the sites and town. We'll have time to catch up then." Even as I said it, I wasn't convinced that there would be any time at all for Edward. Running a bed and breakfast would take most of my waking hours, leaving little time for leisure. I'd accepted that fact already and looked forward to the busy, hectic days.

  "You'll have no time for me, and I'll be relegated to a broom closet or the front stoop." He swept across the room to the hearth. "I spent many years wandering these rooms and hallways in solitude, watching the paint peel off and floorboards splinter. During those solitary years, the loneliness ate at my soul. I wondered if I would ever be free from this prison. But having you here, flitting about, laughing, talking, nibbling on a piece of cookie or deep in thought staring out the window and knowing that I won't be able to engage in a conversation with you—that is a far crueler punishment than drifting through a deserted house. It will make the loneliness unbearable."

  If ever there was a time when I wished I could place a comforting hand on his, this was it. He'd just laid bare his deepest thoughts, and I had no way to alleviate his worries. I'd tried my best to help him move on toward a peaceful eternity, but even after discovering that the Beckett genes had survived the test of time and even after introducing him to Jackson, his current descendant, Edward had stayed right here at the Cider Ridge Inn.

  I sighed deeply. "All I can say is I'll try my best to always make time for you."

  He nodded dejectedly. I'd drank only half the milk, but I was sure it wasn't going to do its magic tonight. The unexpected conversation had only revived my earlier mental turmoil. I feared I would toss and turn well into the night. In the morning, I would have to switch the milk for very strong coffee.

  "I never found true love in my short life." Edward's deep voice rolled around the room. "Women were either too vain or too interested in my fortune or, in general, too witless for a decent conversation." He looked at me with his bold blue gaze, a gaze that more often than not reminded me of Jackson. "I think if I'd been born in this century, or if you'd been born when I was still flesh and blood—" He paused. "I think I might have met my match with you, Sunni."

  I was going to blame it on the late hour and my lack of sleep, but his words sent a reverberation of mixed emotions through my entire body. The word that had struck me the most was hearing him speak my name. He rarely called me Sunni, and the sound of it, the way he said it, temporarily stole my breath. Had it been me? Was I the reason Edward couldn't move on? Had our attachment grown so strong, he couldn't part from the inn? I'd acknowledged, more than once, that his leaving would be hard on me. Edward Beckett and the Cider Ridge Inn were as one to me. I couldn't imagine the place without him. Now I was turning his endless existence upside down.

  "If I'd been born in your century, Edward, I think I'd have met my match too." I stifled a yawn. "I've got to get some sleep. Try not to fret about everything, Edward. We'll work it out. Besides, the inn is still a year off, so you'll have plenty of time to toss around fruit."

  His head lowered as he pulled his striking gaze away. "Good night."

  "Good night, Edward." I plodded down the hallway, his words still playing on repeat in my head. I needed to prepare for a restless night.

  Chapter 3

  Edward didn't make an appearance all morning, which might have been due to the Rice siblings having a loud debate over the strength of the coffee. After a long night of tossing and turning, I was decidedly on Henry's side of it not being strong enough. Somehow, in my groggy haze, I'd managed to find my way to the news office.

  Myrna was placing chunks of apple strudel on one of Prudence's silver trays as I walked inside.

  "Morning, Sunni," Myrna chirped. She looked fresh and beautiful and rested. The exact opposite of how I imagined myself looking.

  "Naturally, Parker and Dave have not arrived, and Prudence is in her office on a phone call." We'd had one more reporter in the newsroom for all of three weeks. Sylvia Ritter came highly recommended to Prudence as an expert in fashion and style. While it was true Sylvia knew how to post pretty photos online, she couldn't write a coherent sentence to save her life. She also couldn't understand why newspapers had to deal with harsh, ridiculous deadlines. The whole process of newspaper creation, printing and distribution escaped her. She was more of a free spirit she'd told all of us as she packed up her fashionable little desk and chair (at Prue's request) and flounced out the door.

  Myrna finished with the pastry and took a moment to do a graceful twirl in the middle of the floor. "I just love an empty newsroom, don't you?"

  I headed to my desk near the door and away from the prime spot I used to occupy, a spot I had to relinquish to the lead reporter because he caught chills easily . . . apparently. So, the two sturdy, well-built men had desks in the center of the newsroom due to delicate constitutions, and Myrna and I sat near the door. Fortunately, since the newsroom lacked frequent visitors, the open door and the ensuing cold or hot air, depending on the weather, was kept at a mi
nimum.

  "You're sure in a good mood this morning." I put my purse away and turned on my computer.

  "Am I?" she said cheerily. "I suppose so. I had a solid night's sleep. That always does a world of good." She looked at me for the first time. "Oh my, but you did not. What happened? Did those noisy Cider Ridge spirits rattle their chains all night?" she asked with a laugh.

  I smiled and laughed lightly. "Something like that."

  Myrna sat down at her desk. "I still think that the haunted inn route might be the way to go for Cider Ridge. Everyone loves a spooky adventure."

  My head was still groggy from the long night. I rested back against my chair and looked at her from beneath heavy lids. "Not you too, Myrna. Everyone is so obsessed with the inn being haunted—" the phrase came out right as the door swung open. Just like the night before, Dave had not missed a beat.

  He stepped eagerly into the newsroom and spun around toward my desk. "Ah ha, so it is haunted. I knew I wasn't imagining what I saw last night."

  It seemed the whole orange episode had followed me right into the morning. I was not in the mood.

  Myrna's wide-eyed look turned my direction. "What happened last night?" she asked.

  "We had a very nice dinner, and Emmie made a delicious chocolate cake. I think we'll have it on the menu at the inn."

  Dave walked to his desk with his laptop bag and lunch. "See, the fact that you're ignoring the whole thing makes me wonder just how often you've witnessed strange events."

  Myrna's face was popping back and forth. She turned back to me. "What strange events? Is someone going to fill me in on what exactly happened last night." She gasped lightly. "Did the Cider Ridge ghost appear?"

  Dave was thrilled to finally find someone willing to go along with his paranormal enthusiasm. He sat in his chair and rolled it out from behind his desk to have a clearer view of Myrna. "Three oranges literally took flight around the room before falling to the ground and then Sunni scolded someone for ruining good produce." He sat smugly back and crossed his arms. "Well, do you deny it?" I knew he'd exaggerated the whole scene just to get me to argue that they didn't fly around the room but just hovered in thin air. I wasn't falling for his trap. After all, we'd gone to the same school of journalism. I knew all the tricks to get someone to come clean.

  Myrna had spun back again to look at me.

  I crossed my arms to mirror his cocky confidence. "I think Lana's right. You drink far too much coffee, and as I told you, I was scolding myself for dropping perfectly good oranges."

  Myrna's straight posture faded into a disappointed slump. "Oh, is that all. Well, Dave, I'd hardly call that a strange event. Just the other morning, I sent an apple rolling across the kitchen floor. Poor thing was just about applesauce by the time it finished ricocheting off the cabinets like a pinball."

  Dave lowered his arms and sat up, ready to lodge his defense. Prudence's door opened, putting an abrupt end to the conversation. It was one of the few times I was honestly glad to see my new boss. She clapped her hands together, an attention grabbing gesture that always reminded me of a grade school teacher.

  She glanced around and huffed loudly. "Don't tell me, Parker is late again. What is it this time? A stubbed toe that required emergency surgery?" Myrna and I stifled a laugh. It had taken Prudence less than a month to realize that her editor was a hypochondriac. And while the rest of us either ignored or, occasionally, went along with and even offered sympathy for his many plights and illnesses, Prue had made it clear she would not put up with it. To add to Parker's misery of having to share his office with the rest of us, Prue made a rule that no one was allowed to use nasal or throat spray in the newsroom. Parker had to go to the restroom to 'tend to his various maladies' as she'd put it. "Everyone, take a piece of strudel and let's get started."

  I got up from my desk and decided my best bet was to avoid eye contact with Dave. Lana would set him straight soon enough, then this whole problem would be behind me. I picked up two plump pieces of strudel. A flaky, buttery crust was wrapped around chunks of cinnamon doused apples. Prudence's treats made the staff meetings more than tolerable.

  Warm air that matched the strudel in stickiness, ushered into the newsroom as Parker stomped inside. "Morning," he said gruffly as he headed straight to the tray of strudel and piled four pieces on a plate.

  Prudence cleared her throat in that way only older, rich women knew how to do to show displeasure. "So glad you could join us, Parker. I'm equally happy to see that one of your many illnesses hasn't popped up to ruin your appetite." At this point, Parker and Prudence were just tolerating each other. Prudence needed an editor, and Parker, for all his faults, was a good one. And Parker had a family to support. The last thing he wanted to do was uproot them all to find another newspaper position in the city. So he put up with her snide remarks, and she put up with his cough drop wrappers fluttering all over the floor.

  Prudence glanced at her clipboard. Rather than waste time and money on printing meeting agendas, she'd taken to emailing them to us the night before. I'd never had a chance to look at the agenda but it didn't matter. It was always the same on Monday—Prudence handing out assignments, Parker muttering his to-do list and Myrna updating all of us on the advertisers for the next issue.

  Prudence pushed her silver rimmed glasses higher on her nose. "It seems all is rather quiet in our fair town, no big scandals, crimes or murders." Prudence learned quickly, as most of us do in the newspaper business, that shocking stories sell papers. Her homey and good news ideas got pushed aside when readership plummeted and advertisers jumped ship. The bulk of the bad news stories fell to Dave. I'd accepted that reality.

  "Dave, I don't have anything for you yet," she said regrettably.

  Dave straightened his button-down shirt, gray, of course. "No worries on that front, Prue. I've got an interesting lead on a story that I think people will be clamoring to read about." His eyes flicked my direction, but only for a second, before he returned his focus to Prudence. She held a pen over her clipboard as she waited to take notes on his story.

  "I'm going to keep this one to myself for a bit, if you don't mind, Prue. It'll be a surprise."

  Prudence's nose widened as she considered his proposal of keeping her out of the loop. She liked to be in complete control. The whole idea seemed to irritate her. But then, it was Dave Crockett, her star reporter. "Fine, but I'll want to hear about it soon," she admonished.

  She tapped the pen down lower on the clipboard. "Ah yes, Sunni, I have a great assignment for you. It's one I think you'll really enjoy."

  I held my breath waiting for something mundane like a knitting club social.

  "The museum will be receiving a priceless artifact, the Lotus Chalice, from the King Tut exhibit in Egypt. It will be on display at the museum this summer. The whole thing is highly anticipated. Professor Samuel Fisher, a world renowned Egyptologist at the university, will be unveiling the piece this week." She pulled a sticky note off the bottom of the clipboard. "Here is his phone number. He is expecting to be interviewed."

  I hopped up from my chair and retrieved the sticky note. As a kid, I always loved all things Egypt. This wasn't going to be a dull assignment after all. "Thanks, Prue, I'll get right on it."

  Prudence glanced over at Parker. He was at his desk pretending to listen to the meeting, but I was sure he hadn't heard one word. "Parker," Prudence said sharply. "Why don't you come into my office. We'll discuss what kind of timepiece to purchase so that you can manage to get to the news office on time."

  Chapter 4

  My advanced age suddenly crept up on me when I realized I hadn't strolled the hallowed halls of a university in years. I passed the vending machines, those twentieth century marvels that'd provided me with more meals than I liked to admit. They were also good for a between class sugar rush whenever I was heading toward a lecture that I knew would put me to sleep. I was almost tempted to stop for a package of the stale oatmeal cookies, my personal favorite, just for old tim
es' sake, but I was sure even my favorite Granny Mabel's oatmeal raisin cookies wouldn't erase the weariness a sleepless night had left behind. Fortunately, my current assignment had revived me just enough to get me through the day.

  Professor Fisher had invited me to interview him during his office hours. He seemed friendly and open on the phone, which always made for a nice interview. I'd done some research on the man before leaving for the college campus. Samuel Fisher had spent fifteen years in Egypt as an archeologist exploring the many historical sites and treasures the Nile River Valley and Sahara Desert had to offer, which, according to the books and catalogues Fisher wrote, were many. He had his own personal collection that was considered second only to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo. Professor Fisher, now in his fifties, was considered one of the world's leading authorities on Egyptian artifacts, and little ole Sunni Taylor of the Junction Times was going to interview him. I was certain if Dave had discovered how important Samuel Fisher was, he would have insisted on the assignment. Fortunately for me, he'd found something else to occupy his work day. Though I'd found a new inner peace about my position in the newsroom, I might just have fought him on this one.

  Dr. Fisher's door was slightly ajar but I knocked. "Come on in," a voice called from within.

  I stepped inside. Dr. Fisher was standing behind his desk staring down at some paperwork. He had thick, wavy hair, graying temples and was wearing a plaid vest over a green dress shirt. The matching plaid coat was hanging on the back of his chair. The seat of his chair was piled high with books. In fact, all the chairs in his office were piled with books and papers. But the clutter in the chairs was nothing compared to the clutter, a sort of organized chaos, on the shelves around the office. I knew enough about ancient Egypt to recognize the mummified cat and the carved canopic jar. I wondered, briefly, if it still contained a mummified organ. Small carved statues of varying shapes and sizes were strewn between the broken pieces of pottery and rolled sheets of parchment piled on the shelves. A gunmetal gray safe jutted out from the wall of the office. Considering the treasures on the shelves, I could only imagine what was behind the locked door of the safe.