you wanted to charge admission to the museum,” Kat said. “Were you one of them?”
“My, that Emma talks a lot,” Claude said. “But to answer your question, yes. I’m the mean old man who dared suggest we actually make people pay to enter the museum. Constance, of course, disagreed. She said charging a fee cheapened our mission.”
“If money was so tight, why didn’t you sell some of the collection?” Tony asked. “It was worth millions.”
Claude uncrossed his legs, sighed, crossed them in the other direction. “And that was part of the problem. Constance kept buying new items. Because the museum building itself is on the state registry of historic places, we get some cash from the government. And there were fund-raisers, of course. Raffles, things like that. But as soon as the money came in, it went out again. Constance would spend it almost instantly on some godforsaken antique she insisted that the museum just had to have.”
“And I suppose,” Kat said, “she wasn’t too keen on selling anything.”
“She hated that idea more than charging admission. So we were left with too many items to put on display and no money in our bank account.”
“Sounds like the historical society was on the path to bankruptcy.”
“It was,” Claude said. “And had things stayed the same, I’m sure that would have been the end result.”
Kat arched an eyebrow. “You’re making Constance’s death sound like it’s a good thing.”
Her former teacher stared her down. “I’m sad that Constance is dead. I truly am. But this fire most likely saved us.”
“How so?” Tony asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Claude said, shaking his head in a fit of teacherly exasperation. “Insurance money. Practically every item in that museum was insured. Because of this fire, the historical society stands to gain millions.”
“Were there any other members who knew about the insurance policy?”
“We all did,” Claude replied. “Every single one of us.”
Kat’s heart started to beat faster, an excited thumping deep in her chest. Claude Dobson might not have been able to give her and Tony much information about who attacked Constance and started the fire, but he did provide something equally as valuable—a motive.
9 A . M .
“Do you think one of them did it?” Kat asked Tony once they were back in his car.
Nick, who had spent the time waiting for them sprawled across the backseat in boredom, lifted his head. “Who did what?”
“Members of the historical society,” Tony said.
“One of them might have killed Constance,” Kat chimed in.
Tony started the car and slipped on a pair of aviator shades. With the sunglasses, black suit, and determined set of his jaw, he looked more like a Secret Service agent than a state police detective. A big Secret Service agent. Lieutenant Vasquez was so huge that Kat was surprised the car didn’t tilt over on his side.
“The key word here is might, ” he said. “I’d immediately suspect one of those history geeks if they all hadn’t been at that party when the fire broke out.”
“One of them wasn’t,” Kat said. “Emma Pulsifer told me she left around midnight.”
By this time Nick had sat up and was poking his head into the front seat like an impatient child on a car trip. “That would give her plenty of time to swing by the museum and try to start a fire. Maybe she thought Constance was gone. But when Constance caught her in the act, Emma had no choice but to knock her over the head.”
“I don’t think Emma is strong enough for that,” Kat said. “Wallace Noble really thinks this was the work of a man. I do, too.”
On their way out of Claude Dobson’s house, Kat and Tony had formed a plan. They’d split up and question the other two members of the historical society—Burt Hammond and Father Ron—simultaneously. Only now Tony was rethinking that strategy. Kat could tell by the way he stroked his Dick Tracy chin, lost in thought.
“I
“My, that Emma talks a lot,” Claude said. “But to answer your question, yes. I’m the mean old man who dared suggest we actually make people pay to enter the museum. Constance, of course, disagreed. She said charging a fee cheapened our mission.”
“If money was so tight, why didn’t you sell some of the collection?” Tony asked. “It was worth millions.”
Claude uncrossed his legs, sighed, crossed them in the other direction. “And that was part of the problem. Constance kept buying new items. Because the museum building itself is on the state registry of historic places, we get some cash from the government. And there were fund-raisers, of course. Raffles, things like that. But as soon as the money came in, it went out again. Constance would spend it almost instantly on some godforsaken antique she insisted that the museum just had to have.”
“And I suppose,” Kat said, “she wasn’t too keen on selling anything.”
“She hated that idea more than charging admission. So we were left with too many items to put on display and no money in our bank account.”
“Sounds like the historical society was on the path to bankruptcy.”
“It was,” Claude said. “And had things stayed the same, I’m sure that would have been the end result.”
Kat arched an eyebrow. “You’re making Constance’s death sound like it’s a good thing.”
Her former teacher stared her down. “I’m sad that Constance is dead. I truly am. But this fire most likely saved us.”
“How so?” Tony asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Claude said, shaking his head in a fit of teacherly exasperation. “Insurance money. Practically every item in that museum was insured. Because of this fire, the historical society stands to gain millions.”
“Were there any other members who knew about the insurance policy?”
“We all did,” Claude replied. “Every single one of us.”
Kat’s heart started to beat faster, an excited thumping deep in her chest. Claude Dobson might not have been able to give her and Tony much information about who attacked Constance and started the fire, but he did provide something equally as valuable—a motive.
9 A . M .
“Do you think one of them did it?” Kat asked Tony once they were back in his car.
Nick, who had spent the time waiting for them sprawled across the backseat in boredom, lifted his head. “Who did what?”
“Members of the historical society,” Tony said.
“One of them might have killed Constance,” Kat chimed in.
Tony started the car and slipped on a pair of aviator shades. With the sunglasses, black suit, and determined set of his jaw, he looked more like a Secret Service agent than a state police detective. A big Secret Service agent. Lieutenant Vasquez was so huge that Kat was surprised the car didn’t tilt over on his side.
“The key word here is might, ” he said. “I’d immediately suspect one of those history geeks if they all hadn’t been at that party when the fire broke out.”
“One of them wasn’t,” Kat said. “Emma Pulsifer told me she left around midnight.”
By this time Nick had sat up and was poking his head into the front seat like an impatient child on a car trip. “That would give her plenty of time to swing by the museum and try to start a fire. Maybe she thought Constance was gone. But when Constance caught her in the act, Emma had no choice but to knock her over the head.”
“I don’t think Emma is strong enough for that,” Kat said. “Wallace Noble really thinks this was the work of a man. I do, too.”
On their way out of Claude Dobson’s house, Kat and Tony had formed a plan. They’d split up and question the other two members of the historical society—Burt Hammond and Father Ron—simultaneously. Only now Tony was rethinking that strategy. Kat could tell by the way he stroked his Dick Tracy chin, lost in thought.
“I
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