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Oh, he’s right. Idolike that.
10
Rory
“Careful with that!”
I nearly drop the manila folder I’m holding at the sound of Constance’s cry.
She hurries over to me, leaping over boxes, skirting around file cabinets, and snatches the folder from me.
“Is this the manila folder to end all manila folders?”
Constance doesn’t respond, instead opening it, revealing a stack of receipts and a sticky note that readsShred these. She sighs. “No, clearly not.”
We’ve been stuck in the dusty basement for a few hours now. I don’t know how I got roped into Constance’s conspiracy, but here I am, assisting her in going through the museum archives so she can dig up more information on the Wilhelm House.
Okay, Idoknow how I got roped into it. After we confronted Harvey two days ago, Constance came away from the interrogation with a new bent. “History,” she had said. “It’s all abouthistory. I knew it.”
Without the note to corroborate Harvey’s story, it wasn’t under my jurisdiction to start assigning motive to the skeleton showing up on the Frederickson property. However, that didn’t mean Constance couldn’t lean into the idea.
Which means on my off time, I can entertain the thought just as well as she can.
Today, after my shift, I stopped by the museum to check on her with a peace offering compliments of Kate Ballantine. A rooibos for Constance… and a matcha for me. What can I say? The taste grew on me.
A ten-minute drop-by has turned into a three-hour hunt for any newspaper article, any photograph, anyanythingWilhelm related.
I can roll my eyes at her all I want, chuckle about her vehemence and passion for the work, pretend like I don’t want to be here. The truth is, though, I want to be here. I like it. I like being close to Constance, like watching her work, likehelpingher, at least when she’s not snatching folders out of my hands.
Constance hands the folder back to me with a sigh. “Can you put that in the right banker box, please?”
“You got it.”
She smiles tiredly. “Thanks.” Then she goes back to the corkboard at the other end of the room where she’s pinned each and every plastic sheathed piece we’ve come across to give us info on the Wilhelm family and their property.
I remain frozen in place for a few seconds, that tired smile the only thing on my mind. Does that mean she’s comfortable with me? Does she even know she did it?
“So the Wilhelm house was erected in 1852,” she says, tapping a finger to the first article on the board.
I watch as she draws her pointer finger in a line across the board.
“It was passed down through the generations until 1933 when Cornelius Wilhelm the Third passed away and the ownership was contested by his three ex-wives.”
“Man got around,” I remark.
Constance glares over her shoulder at me. Not nearly as cutting as they used to be. Have I gotten used to them or are they softer somehow?
“Ha. Ha.”
I throw my hands up in surrender. “Facts don’t lie.”
Oh man. Another smile. Small and crinkly, like she’s just eaten something sour and a little sweet. “Guess you’re right about that.”
She turns back to the board, puts her hands on her hips. With her eyes elsewhere, I run my hands through my hair and try to take some deep breaths. I haven’t felt this turned around by a woman since I was a teenager. I have to get a grip.
“It was given to his final wife who was thirty years his junior, Farrah Wilhelm, who then married Wilhelm’s business partner, Matthew Kinsley. Which then moved the Wilhelm property into the hands of the Kinsley family for the next almost-century.”
I frown. “And they still call it the Wilhelm house?”
