The Candle Museum

 A missing persons case takes Tom Jurgen and Rachel on the hunt for three candles with dangerous supernatural powers.

The Candle Museum, Part One

I pressed the buzzer for Angela Greenwood six times with no luck. So I pressed the buzzer for the building super.

            “Yeah?” The voice was raspy through the intercom. 

            “I’m looking for Angela Greenwood. She’s not answering her bell. Her family is concerned about her, she’s not answering any calls or texts. Can we check to see if she’s okay?”

            A grunt. “Hang on.”

            Two minutes later a Black man opened the door and looked me over suspiciously. “Who are you?” The name “Carl” was stitched on his blue shirt.

            A bus went by on the street behind me. “My name’s Tom Jurgen.” I handed him a business card. “I’m a private detective. Ms. Greenwood’s uncle was expecting her to visit him and she never showed up. She doesn’t respond to any calls or text messages. Could we just see if she’s all right in her apartment?”

            Carl stared at the card. “I shouldn’t do this. But she’s a nice girl. Woman. Lady. Come on.” He let me inside.

            We rode an elevator to the second floor. “I can’t let you in.”

            “Right.” I nodded. “Just seeing if she’s all right.”

            “Right.” The elevator doors opened.

            Carl knocked on the door. Knocked again. A third time. I didn’t rush him. Finally he reached into a pocket for a huge ring of keys. After rotating it for a moment, he picked one out and unlocked the door. “Stay out here,” he reminded me.

            “Got it.”

            I stayed at the doorway, but I could see around his arm. 

The apartment had been trashed. A sofa had been flipped over. Books were scattered across the floor. The TV’s screen was cracked. 

            “Jesus Christ.” Carl raised his voice. “Ms. Greenwood? Hello?”

            No answer.

            “You wait here.” Carl marched into the apartment. Once he’d disappeared into the kitchen, I stepped inside. I didn’t touch anything. Just looked around, bending over, stretching my neck up, searching for any clue to who had been here.

            Carl came out of the bedroom. “I told you to stay outside!”

            I retreated quickly. “Sorry. I’ll leave. You calling the police?”

            “Maybe you should stay here.” He pulled a phone from another pocket.

            “You’ve got my card. Have them call me.” Some of them would know my name. They wouldn’t be happy about it.

            “Wait!” But Carl wasn’t about to chase me down and tackle me to the ground. I took the stairs and was out on the street while he was probably still talking to the 911 operator.

 

All right, I’d told Carl at least one lie.

            My client wasn’t Angela Greenwood’s uncle. A man named Justin Chapman had called me that morning from New York City. He’d been close friends with Angela’s father, Alexander Greenwood. Angela was supposed to come for a visit in New York, but she never showed up, and she wasn’t answering any of his calls or emails.

            Honestly, the story ran up a few red flags. Why hire a private detective instead of asking a friend or family member to check on Angela? Why did he sound more irritated than worried about her? Why was he flying a young woman out to New York anyway? As a private detective for years, and a reporter for years before that, I’ve learned not to take anything people tell me purely at face value. 

Still, the job sounded pretty straightforward. I warned Chapman that even if I found Angela, all I could do was ask her to contact him. He seemed okay with that. And he agreed to the financial details readily enough, and his retainer came through promptly.

            The money would come in handy. Rachel and I had just gotten back from our honeymoon, after years of dating and living together, and while the transition was so far smooth, we were both adjusting to the new reality of married life. Rachel was working more outside the office we share at home, with her new job as a therapist in an office with several other mental health practitioners. I felt antsy without her around, so I was trying to keep busy. 

Chapman had given me Angela’s address, so I’d started there. I called him from my car to tell him about the state of the apartment. He sounded concerned. “You’ll do everything you can, won’t you? I hate to think that something terrible has happened to her.”

“I will try. I can’t make any promises. This could turn out all right, but I have no way of knowing right now.”

He wasn’t satisfied, but he accepted it. For the moment.

Now I was on my way to visit the one friend of Angela’s Chapman knew about: Wendy Newell, a bartender at The River, a few blocks over from Angela’s apartment in Logan Square.

Another red flag: Wendy wasn’t anywhere on Angela’s social media. Why not, if they were friends? It had to mean that my client wanted me to talk to her. For some reason. Maybe I’d find out.

At one thirty in the afternoon the bar had few customers. Two men sat at a table in the corner, watching the baseball game and drinking beers. A woman in her 50s sat at one end of the bar with a glass of wine in front of her, playing a game on her phone with one hand and twisting a strand of gray hair with the other. The bartender was young and blond, in jeans and an apron with The River’s logo in front. “What can I get you?”

“Heineken.” I took out my phone and pulled up a picture of Angela that Chapman had sent me. “Are you Wendy?”

She paused while popping open the green bottle. “Yeah.”

I put a card on the bar. “My name’s Tom Jurgen. I’m a private investigator. Do you know Angela Greenwood?”

Wendy poured the beer into a mug. “Yeah. We’re friends. Not BFFs, but I know her.” She set the mug down in front of me.

“She was supposed to get on a plane and visit a friend of her father’s in New York.” I sipped the beer. Cold. “But she never showed up, never got on the plane apparently. I’m working for him—Justin Chapman. Do you have any idea where Angela is?”

She took my phone and looked at the image. “I don’t really know. I haven’t seen her for a week or so.”

Again I wondered why Chapman had sent me here. “How do you know each other?”

“We took some classes together. At Columbia.” A local college. “I guess she lives near here? She started coming in with friends about a year ago, and we recognized each other. We don’t really hang out much, but she comes here every couple of weeks, sometimes with friends, sometimes just alone.”

“What kind of classes?”

She shrugged. “English. Got a degree, I don’t know about Angie. And here I am, slinging drinks. I should have gone to marketing school, like my mother said.”

“My mom wanted me to be an accountant, like my dad.” I looked at the phone. “Where does Angela work? Do you know?” Chapman hadn’t told me.

“At the Candle Museum. It’s over on Park.” She pointed. “I guess that’s how she found me here, it’s a good spot to come after work.”

”The Candle Museum?” Chicago has lots of museums, some big, some small. I’d never heard of this one.

“Yeah, it’s all about the history of candle making and lighting. Big chandeliers from France and stone candle holders from the Stone Age and everything in between. It’s pretty neat.” She smiled.

“I’ll have to check it out. What does she do there?”

“Gift shop. But I think she’s working on a master’s. Art history. Yeah, that’s what she was taking at Columbia, art history. I remember now.”

I paid for my beer and thanked her. Then I left a nice tip, and half the beer because it was early for me and I had to drive. Wendy thanked me with a smile. “Come back soon!” 

I looked up the Candle Museum on my phone. Walking distance. I’d left my car near Angela’s apartment. Hopefully the police would be gone by the time I went back to it. In the meantime I followed my phone a few blocks and found the place quickly.

CHICAGO CANDLE MUSEUM was in big black letters over the front window, which displayed an assortment of candles in lamps, lanterns, candelabras, and one small crystal chandelier hanging over the whole display. The door beside the big window had a sign that said OPEN! WELCOME! with drawings of candles around the words.

A bell rang as I pushed the door open, and a neon candle lit up in front of me. An older woman sitting at a table looked up and smiled at me. “Welcome to the museum! Our next candle making demonstration is in 20 minutes. You can sign up for classes over there—” She pointed to a man behind a counter polishing brass. “We ask a five-dollar donation.”

I put five dollars into the box in front of her, and showed her the picture of Angela. “I’m told she works in the gift shop here?”

She leaned forward. “I think I recognize her. I just volunteer here one day a week. You can ask.” She gestured in a different direction, and I saw GIFT SHOP above an open door to the left.

I thanked her and made my way past her desk and into the museum. 

A large round room held a half-dozen display cases in a circle beneath a massive chandelier. Dangling 12 feet up from a broad wooden beam across the ceiling, the chandelier held at least 100 candles from circular wrought iron frame. It was big and black and heavy, swinging just a little from the breeze that had come in from the door, like a pendulum in a grandfather clock. The candles weren’t lit, but the effect was still impressive. I imagined a medieval servant on a swaying ladder lighting them one by one every morning in some lord’s castle.

Candles glowed from sconces in the ivory white walls. Others burned on the glass tops of the display cases, but the big room was mostly illuminated by recessed lighting over pictures hanging on the walls—not candles, but paintings or reproductions with scenes from the Renaissance, Victorian London, and early 20^thcentury farm life.  

The display cases around the room looked like someone had traveled through time collecting every candle and holder they could lay their hands on throughout the centuries, from the Stone Age to last Tuesday. Thin white candles in tapers, golden candles in stem holders, thick candles in mason jars, a lone candle mounted in a piece of rock that looked like a Neanderthal had used it to light up a cave, ornate jeweled candelabras, and simple candles in small tealight holders. If they’d all been lit, I’d have needed sunglasses. And the Fire Department would probably close the place down. I saw a sprinkler system waiting to rain hanging from the ceiling.

Hallways branched away from the central room. One was labeled “Classes.” Another had an arrow pointing to “Special Collections.” An arrow pointed to the restrooms.

A set of double doors was marked “ADMINISTRATION—No Admittance.” On the opposite side of the big room was a wide-open sliding glass door with GIFT SHOP in gold letters, which is what I was looking for.

The gift shop sold candles, obviously, along with candle holders, books, calendars, magazines, prints, postcards, even long matches for lighting those hard-to-reach wicks. Hanging candles swung gently from the ceiling, around the pipe for the sprinklers. Someone had taped a postcard to the smoke detector over the door.

Inside a young man in a T-shirt and a leather vest sat on a stool behind the counter, looking through a magazine from the spinner rack next to the calendars. “Hi! I’m Len. Let me know if you need any help.” He was skinny, with short hair already turned mostly white.

“Actually . . .” I showed him my phone with the picture of Angela. “Does she work here?”

“Angela! Yeah. But she didn’t come in yesterday. I don’t know what happened, she didn’t call or anything.” He looked at me. ”Why?”

I showed Len my card. “Her uncle hired me. Has she worked here long?”

“About three months? I think. I’ve been here since March—my father made me take this job part-time—and she started a little after me. But she’s really good, knows all about the museum and the candles and our stock.” He spread an arm out, taking in the small shop. “I’m surprised they don’t make her a manager.”

“Is it common for her to not show up?”

Len shook his head. “No. It’s really strange.”

“Do you know any of her friends? Wendy at the bar?”

“Bar?” He looked confused. “No. She has a boyfriend. Or had one, I guess. I think they broke up.”

I was about to ask more about that when shouting from the main room interrupted me. 

An old man a suit from a 1940s movie was standing in the center of the room, between the display cases. He had a cane, and he was waving an angry arm in the air. His hair was thin and white on his scalp, and his face was red as he shouted, wobbling on skinny weak legs.

“Where is it? It’s gone! You promised it would be safe!” He pounded the cane on the tile. “I trusted it to you, and now it’s God knows where! What happened? It’s mine! It’s gone!”

Something flickered in the corner of my eye, a flash of light, but before I could look the administration doors flew open, and a woman in glasses and a long dress rushed out. “What’s going—Gavin? Gavin, what’s the matter? Stop shouting and come in here—”

The man whirled, unsteady, and pointed a finger toward one of the hallways. “Marilyn, we need to look at—”

Whatever he needed to look at, he never got the chance. 

The big metal chandelier in the center of the ceiling crashed down on him. He screamed once, then collapsed beneath it as it crushed him under its wide rings. The candles broke or flew out of their holders like angry wasps deserting a fallen nest and rolled on the floor away from him.

Gavin, whoever he was, lay motionless on the tile, blood seeping from the back of his skull.

No one else screamed. Marilyn stared at the wreckage for a moment, then turned to shout into the office: “Call 911! Right now! It’s Gavin! The chandelier fell on him!”

Len was right next to me, gazing at Gavin’s body,. “How could that—it’s not possible.”

I looked up. The chandelier had seemed firmly mounted. Now the beam looked as if the bolts had been ripped away, leaving splintered wood behind. The chandelier had swung lightly in the breeze from the door on a thick chain, but that hadn’t broken. The base above it had somehow been yanked out of the beam, as if a giant hand had reached up to pull it free and let it fall.

            “Who is he?” I asked Len.

            “Gavin Kantner. He’s one of our biggest donors. I don’t—what? Excuse me.” 

He ran toward the restrooms. Did he need to throw up? A man came up the hall, almost colliding with him. I didn’t get a good look at him as they talked for a few moments, but he was tall, wearing glasses and a wide hat. Then Len made a dash for the restroom, and the man disappeared down the hall. 

            I waited a few more minutes, but there was nothing for me to do, and asking more questions about Angela would be sort of inappropriate. Once the paramedics arrived, I left.

The Candle Museum, Part Two

Back home I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to contact Angela’s friends through her Facebook and other social media profiles. I sent emails and direct messages and waited for someone to contact me, but nothing happened right away. I noticed that Wendy the bartender wasn’t on any of Angela’s friends lists, and made a note to ask them, if any ever emailed me back.

            Rachel came home as I was putting together vegetarian burritos. We’d always alternated cooking night, but with her new job keeping her at the office three or four nights a week lately, the schedule had become more of a subject for negotiation. Of course, my job frequently kept me out on the mean streets past dinnertime, so we’d always had to be flexible. Since getting back from the honeymoon, though, I felt like I was doing more cooking. I wasn’t about to complain, but I was starting to plan bigger dinners so I could load them into the freezer. 

            “Hi, honey, I’m home.” Rachel looked tired as she pulled a beer from the refrigerator. She looked at my dinner preparations. “Are we having a party? Or are you just really, really hungry?”

            I was on the middle of the seventh of 12 burritos. “Just making enough for a few days. So neither of us gets cranky when there’s nothing to eat.”

            “I’m never cranky. Jerk.” She punched my arm. “How’s the detective biz?”

            “I saw a chandelier fall on a guy and kill him. Can you top that?”

            Her eyebrows rose. “You okay?”

            “Fine. It ruined his afternoon, though.” I told Rachel about the case as she sipped her beer.

            Her hazelnut eyes lit up. “That museum sounds cool.”

            “I might have to check it out again.” I got a beer for myself.

            “Because—was it supernatural? The chandelier?” Rachel’s at least slightly psychic. She’s always helped me on cases that veer into supernatural territory, although lately her availability was more limited because of her new job

            “I don’t know. There’s no indication yet, but the whole thing was—unusually bad timing for the guy.”

            “Some people are just unlucky.” She left her beer on the table. “I’m going to change.”

            We ate dinner, watched a few episodes of Ripley, and went to bed. We weren’t exactly in the honeymoon phase after living together for years, but we were still celebrating surviving the wedding ceremony without any bloodshed.

            The next morning I started getting responses to my messages and emails. Not surprisingly, no one knew where Angela was, or even that she’d been planning a trip to New York. One or two people recognized Chapman as a distant friend she’d mentioned once or twice. Everyone hoped she was all right.

            As I tried to think of my next move, I decided to check out the Candle Museum on the internet. It had dozens of photos, of course, plus a virtual tour of one of the collections, videos on candle making, and a virtual gift shop. Marilyn’s picture was there as the museum’s director. Her last name was LaVigne. 

I checked out the board of directors’ page. The museum’s founder and president of the board was a woman named Susan Lavigne. She looked like Marilyn’s mother, or maybe an aunt. She was the lone female on the board, with five other men. Kantner had been there 20 years.

He had owned a chain of restaurants in and around Chicago, but he’d assembled a vast collection of antiquities and artifacts, including candle holders from ancient Greece and Egypt, along with pottery and paintings from around the world.

The other board members had similar credentials and collections. The newest member was a man named Glen Noland, who’d joined two years ago. Noland was a professor of cultural anthropology at the University of Chicago, author of published articles on everything from Japanese tea ceremonies to ancient Central American architecture in a large number of academic journals. He had gray hair, balding at the top, and small, wire-rimmed glasses. 

I could knock on some doors in Angela’s neighborhood, or go back to the Candle Museum and ask question, but otherwise I didn’t have any clear direction. Sometimes it’s like that. I’d have to call my client soon, but I didn’t want to seem like I was admitting defeat too quickly. 

            My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I might be a telemarketer inquiring about my car’s extended warranty, but in my business it pays to answer every call. “Tom Jurgen speaking.”

            “Mr. Jurgen? My name is Robert—Bob—Chen. I’m uh, Angela Greenfield’s boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. The super at her building told me you were at her apartment yesterday, and her apartment was trashed?”

            “That’s right, I was there.” I remembered giving Carl my card. “I’m trying to locate Angela. Do you know where she is?”

            “No. That’s what I was doing yesterday. I haven’t heard from her. What’s going on?”

            My phone buzzed with a second call. This one I had to answer. “I have another call coming in. Can we meet somewhere?”

            We agreed on a diner in Logan Square, not far from Angela’s apartment, in an hour. I thanked him, hung up, and answered the second call. “Good morning, Detective Cruz. How may I serve you today?”

            Detective Peter Cruz was a cop I’d met on a case involving a demon inhabiting two brothers at the same time. It had been an odd and disturbing case, and he’d never quite believed me when I tried to explain the details. 

            “You can tell me what you were doing at Angela Greenfield’s apartment yesterday.” Cruz did not sound pleased to renew our acquaintance.

            “Just what I told the super there, Carl. I was hired by a friend of her father who was worried that she hadn’t made a plane to come visit him in New York. That’s it. The apartment seemed like a logical first step.”

            “You told the super it was her uncle.” He seemed pleased with himself at catching me in a lie.

            “I did say that. It seemed less complicated.”

            “Who is it?”

            I hesitated. Doctors and lawyers can keep things confidential—private detectives can’t. “Let me call my client first and give him a heads up.”

            “No. I want the name now. What do you know about this guy?”

            “I know his money’s good.” I sighed. “Okay, his name is Justin Chapman, and his number is, give me a minute—”

            While I was talking, I typed out a quick email to Chapman telling him to expect a call. I hoped he wouldn’t be angry—if anything, he ought to be happy the people were looking for Angela too, they have more and better resources than a lone P.I. But you never know how a client will react. To anything.  

            “Here’s his number.” I read it out.

            “And while you were finding it, you emailed him to warn him I’d be calling.” 

            “Wow, that’s good. Have you considered a career as a detective?”

            “Ha ha. Is this one of your crazy paranormal delusion cases? Were you looking for ghosts or vampires in Greenwood’s apartment?”

            “No and no. I didn’t expect that her apartment would be trashed, and I didn’t have any reason to think she was in any trouble when I went there. And I haven’t seen anything that suggests any supernatural phenomena.” Except maybe for the falling chandelier. But I didn’t want to mention that to him right now

            “Okay. We don’t any an official missing persons report yet, but we’re treating this as suspicious. I’m going to call your client when I get off with you. Don’t call to tell him what to say.” Cruz hung up.

            I put the phone down. I can be a smart aleck—some call it being an asshole—with the police, but I was a little nervous about Cruz. I wondered what Chapman would tell him. I have some allies on the CPB, but Cruz wasn’t one of them.

            I waited a few minutes, then called Chapman. No answer. I sent him another email. No response. Was Cruz still grilling him? I waited until it was time to go meet Bob Chen.

            

Bob Chen was an Asian man in his mid-20s, wearing jeans and a sweater. The diner was quiet, clean, and served good coffee. He ordered a blueberry scone. It smelled distractingly delicious.

            “We dated about six months.” Chen looked nervous. “Then we broke up. It was about six weeks ago. It was—nothing was wrong, we didn’t fight about stuff, we just realized it wasn’t going anywhere. We weren’t going to move in or get married or anything, we were just okay as friends and that was it. But I talk to her every week or so, sometimes we have drinks. Anyway, we were supposed to have brunch with friends on Sunday and she didn’t show up. That was odd. And she didn’t answer any of my texts. So yesterday I went over to her place, and there were cops there. I asked them what was going on, and Carl, the building guy, said you’d come looking for Angela and gave me your card. I’m kind of worried. Especially after the cops told me her apartment was trashed. What’s going on?””

            “I don’t know.” I looked at his scone and wished I’d ordered something. “Did she ever mention a friend of her father named Justin Chapman?”

            Chen shook his head. “Once or twice. Sometimes he sent her money.”

            “He says Angela was supposed to fly out to visit him in New York, but she never showed up. No one I’ve talked to seems to have seen her in the last three or four days.”

            He stared at his scone. “Is he telling the truth?”

            “I hope so. What can you tell me about Angela? What’s she like?”

            Chen closed his eyes. “She’s—great, but sort of scattered. She had three different jobs when we were dating, one after the other. She didn’t get fired, she just never stayed long. I don’t even know where she’s working now. She’d make plans and then forget them, and I got mad about that. But she did always say she was sorry.” 

He picked up the scone. “She could be moody—happy one minute, deep down the next. I guess her mother died when she was young, and her father married a bitch—her word, not mine, I never met her—and then got divorced. He died a few years ago, and that made her sad a lot.” He took a bite.

            “She’s working at the Candle Museum now. Have you been there?”

            “Is she? That’s good, she always liked that place. I never went there with her, but she talked about it.”

            “What about Wendy?”

            He looked puzzled, chewing his scone. “Who’s that?”

            “A friend of hers. Wendy. A bartender at The River. Blond hair, about your age?”

            Chen shrugged. “I don’t know. I never met her.”

            I thought about that for a moment. Then I asked, “Where would Angela go if she wanted to get away from everyone?”

            He scratched his head. “Her sister lives in Wisconsin. Her name’s Adeline, but she’s married. I don’t know her married name. I think she’s in Madison.” Another shrug. “Like, ‘When you have to go there, they have to take you in’? That’s all I can think of.”

            “Is flying to New York to see a friend of her father something she’d do? Or does that sound out of character?”

            He frowned. “Maybe. Like I said, she’s kind of impulsive. For a free trip to New York, she might do it.”

            I nodded. “Okay, Thanks for your time.”

            He wrapped his scone up in a napkin and left. I finished my coffee, then ordered a scone to go. I checked the time, and then the internet for The River’s website. It opened in 30 minutes or so. I didn’t need a drink, but I wanted to talk to Wendy again.

 

I could see Wendy cleaning the bar as from outside for The River. While I was waiting outside for her to open up, I called my client again. No answer. Again. I left another voicemail.

            Wendy unlocked the doors at 11:30. I was first in, followed quickly by a middle-aged who looked hungover as he planted himself at the bar and ordered a bloody mary.

            Wendy saw me as she was fixing his drink. “You again. Beer?”

            “Just a Coke.”

            She brought me a can and a glass. “Two fifty.”

            I took out a five-dollar bill. “You don’t really know Angela Greenwood, do you?”

            Wendy looked at the money and sighed. “Is this going to be a pain in the ass for me?”

            I shook my head and tried to smile reassuringly. “Look, I’m not a cop. There’s no law against lying to me. I’m just trying to find Angela. What’s going on?”

            Wendy leaned against the bar, avoiding my eyes. “There was this guy on my Tinder a few days ago. He wasn’t looking for dates, he wanted someone in Chicago who could—he said play a prank for him. It was a strange kind of prank, but he offered me $200, and it didn’t sound so bad. Just tell a guy named Tom that Angela worked at the Candle Museum.”

            I frowned, trying to think. “So your only job was to get me to go to the Candle Museum?”

            Wendy nodded. “Yeah. He told me some stuff about this girl, Angie, so I could fake it, and I figured you’d be right off to check out the museum so you wouldn’t ask a lot of questions. Shit. I’m sorry.” She turned away and grabbed a bar towel.

            “That’s okay.” I tend to forgive lies pretty easily once I’ve gotten the truth. “Who was the guy?”

            She pulled her phone out of a back pocket. “Here. His name’s Jerry. He said. I’m pretty sure the picture isn’t him.”

            The profile image showed a man with a gray beard, probably in his 50s. I realized I had no idea what Justin Chapman looked like. I looked through their text conversation. It went along with Wendy’s story. And it showed that she’d gotten the $100 that night, and then the rest of the money yesterday, after my visit to the bar. 

            “I know, I know, I was stupid.” She jammed the phone into her back pocket. “I’m just behind on my loans and it seemed easy and I didn’t see how it could be anything really bad. I’m sorry.”

            I drank some of my Coke and stood up. “Don’t worry about it. If he contacts you again, just let me know, okay?” I dropped another business card on the bar. “Don’t tell him you told me. Just be vague.”

            “Okay. Thanks. And—I’m sorry again.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I hope you find her. I hope she’s okay.”

            I smiled. “Yeah. Me too.”

The Candle Museum, Part Three

So now I had to go back to the Candle Museum.

            I paid the suggested donation again and headed right for the gift shop. Len was there again today, and he looked tense, as if he’d had trouble sleeping after seeing a man crushed by a chandelier yesterday. He nodded as I walked up.

            “How you holding up?” I asked.

            He shook his head. “It was crazy. Paramedics and customers asking questions, and then they had to clear the chandelier away and clean the blood off the floor. They let us go home early, but I had to be here at nine to help clean up.”

            “And Mr. Kantner?”

            “Died.” He rubbed his face. “He was kind of a pain in the butt sometimes, telling everyone what to do when he didn’t even run the place, but still—seeing that . . .” His voice trailed off.

            “What was he yelling about? Something missing?”

            “Can I help you with something?” The voice came from behind me. 

            I turned. It was Marilyn LaVigne, the museum director. Len back away from the counter, and I fished a business card from my jacket. “Tom Jurgen. I was here yesterday asking about Angela Greenwood when the, uh, accident happened.”

            She looked at my card, front and back, then slipped it into a skirt pocket. “Angela hasn’t shown up for days. I’m afraid we’ll have to consider her as having quit. That’s really all I can tell you. Is there anything else?”

            Marilyn obviously wanted me gone, but I wasn’t ready to leave yet. “What was missing? Why was Kantner yelling that something was gone?”

            She crossed her arms. “Does that have something to do with Angela?”

            “I don’t know. Maybe.”

            “Why are you looking for her?”

            “She seems to be missing. A friend of her father hired me.”

            Marilyn looked at my card again. Then she turned. “Let’s talk.”

            I followed her through the front room and down one of the hallways, the one with the Special Collections sign. Halfway down the hall we came to a door marked “Kantner Collection.”

            “Gavin donated about half of his collection to the museum, along with a generous financial investment, and he’s been a member of our board for 20 years.” She took a big keychain from a pocket of her skirt and unlocked the door. “Usually this is open, naturally, but out of respect we’ve closed it in Gavin’s memory.”

            Marilyn opened the door and flipped a light switch.

            Candles spilled over every inch of the room. Even though none of them lit and burning, the overhead lights seemed to make them glow with an eerie crackling light. They rest on dark wooden tables, glass shelves, and in thick oak cabinets covering the walls. Every color of the rainbow, and some shades not found in nature. Every shape, from tall and straight to spirals and cubes. Some were carved into animals, dragons, birds and sea monster. A few were uncomfortably phallic.

            They sat in holders made of gold, silver, ivory, and glass, some simple and functional, others adorned with jewels. Most of the candles and their holders sat out in the open, with little cards explaining their provenance: How old they were, where they’d come from, what they were made of, where they’d been acquired, and other data.

            One spot was empty.

            The card below read: “Braustein candle. 12^th century, Germany, bronze holder with silver inlay, beeswax candle with lavender scent, 1 of 3 in the world (whereabouts unknown).”

            “That’s what was missing,” Marilyn said.

            I looked at the card. “It says one of three.”

            She nodded. “Gavin was obsessed with finding the other two. He thought he’d located one a few days ago. He was very excited. Then yesterday—” She held her hands up. “This one was gone.”

            “If it’s so important—” I gestured at the locked cases. “Why wasn’t it secured?”

            “By itself it’s not very significant.” She looked around the room at all the other candles on display. “He’s been building this collection for years. I don’t think he paid much attention to this one until he thought he could get his hands on a second one. He said—” She lowered her voice, even though we were alone in the room. “He thought they had some kind of mystical power, magical energy. I don’t know. I’ve seen some weird things here, but—I don’t know.”

            “When did it disappear?”

            Marylin frowned. “No idea. Gavin told us to close the exhibit when he thought he had the second one. Then he came in yesterday and—you know.”

            “Yeah.” I thought about her keychain. “Who would have access to this room? Besides you?”

            She reached into her pocket. “I lock these in my desk when I leave.” She spread them out across her fingers. “But I don’t think it would be too hard for someone to get in. I never really thought about it. This isn’t jewels or fossils or priceless art, for God’s sake. It’s candles.”

            “Lots of people must like them, or you wouldn’t be here.”

            She snorted. “There’s a mustard museum in Wisconsin, and a museum of Spam in Minnesota. I like candles. My mother likes candles. But I guess people will go for anything.” 

            I looked at the empty space on the table. “I guess.”

 

Back home. This was when I really missed having Rachel around.  I like having an audience when to explain my latest breakthrough in a case. I could always text her, but it wouldn’t be the same.

            Instead I heated my scone in the microwave, got some coffee, and sat down at my desk to call my client. I had the voicemail message in my head: not angry, but firm. Something that would compel him to call me as soon as he heard it.

            But Chapman answered on the first buzz. Darn it. “Yes, Mr. Jurgen. Yes, I’ve been avoiding your calls, especially after that police detective got me. I understand your position, but couldn’t you have delayed him somehow?”

            He sounded irritated. Good. That just boosted my sense of self-righteous indignation. “Mr. Chapman, I know you’ve been lying to me. You sent me to Wendy the bartender so she’d send me to the Candle Museum. You hired her via Tinder. She’s never met Angela in her life. Do you want to tell me what’s going on? Do you even know Angela Greenfield?” 

            “Wait. Just—wait . . .” He was silent for a long time. 

            People lie to me, of course. I’m used to it. But when clients lie, it makes my job harder. It also tends to get me in trouble with the police. I try to be open-minded and sympathetic. If they come straight with me, I’ll usually still try to help them, but I’ve quit clients who refuse to tell me the truth. That’s why I always get a retainer up front. No refunds for liars.

            “Look, Paul Greenfield really was my friend for over 20 years,” Chapman finally said. “I watched Angela grow up. She’s struggled a bit. I helped her get that job at the Candle Museum, but I had—reasons of my own.”

            “You wanted her to steal the Braustein candle.”

            Again Chapman was silent. “I can explain. There are three candles. I have one of them. When I learned that another was at the museum in Chicago, I—well, I know some of the people on the board of directors there—”

            “Like Gavin Kantner?”

            “Yes. He’s a collector. Like me. I told Angela to steer clear of him.”

            “So he wouldn’t suspect her?”

            “Because he’s—well, dangerous around young women. Not to be trusted.”

            “So you don’t know what happened to him?”

            “To Gavin? What?”

            “A chandelier in the museum fell on him yesterday. He’s dead.”

            Silence again. “How—what happened?”

            “He’d just discovered that the candle was gone from his special collection. He was standing in the center of the museum, yelling, and the chandelier just—dropped from the ceiling. I was there.”

            “That’s—I don’t know what to say. We weren’t friends, but I never would have wanted anything like this to happen.”

            “He told the museum’s administrator that he was close to getting his hands on another candle. From the set of three.”

            “Oh my God—” For a moment Chapman had trouble breathing. “The third?”

            “I suppose. I didn’t realize you had one of them too. How valuable is it?”

            “It’s not about the money. I mean, they’d be valuable to another collector, but the thing is—” He hesitated. “I’m not sure I can tell you.”

            “Why not?”

            “You might not believe me.”

            “I believed you when you were lying. I’d like to hear the truth.” That sounded harsh. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen and heard a lot of strange things in my life.” I wasn’t going to tell him about all the vampires, demons, or monsters from other dimensions I’ve dealt with. Unless I had to.

            “Well, it’s just that—with the candle burning, people can do things.”          

            “What kind of things?”

            “Move objects. Without touching them. Change things. As long as the candle is burning.”

            I frowned. Just a few months ago I’d had a case involving psychokinesis. It hadn’t been fun. “Like—pulling a chandelier down from its mounting.”

            “Y-Yes. But that’s not all.”

            Great. “What else?”

            “With all three, you can—manipulate people. Take over their minds. Control them. As a trio, they’re incredibly powerful. I know this sounds unbelievable—”

            “We can skip that part.” I rubbed my eyers. “How come they have this power? Were they made by a 12^th-century German wizard?”

            “Uh, yeah. How do you—”

            “I told you. I’ve seen lots of stuff.” I felt a headache coming on. “So you’ve got one, Kantner had one and was about to get another. But now Kantner’s candle is gone and—oh, hell.” Angela. “What happened to Angela?”

            “She was supposed to bring the candle to me. That’s why I called you.”

            “Someone searched her apartment. No one’s heard from her.”

            “Oh God. Do you think . . .” He didn’t finish. 

            “Who has the third candle?”

            “I have no idea. I didn’t even think it still existed before you told me about Gavin. Do you think—” he asked again.

            “I’m trying not to speculate. Was Kantner married?”

            “Divorced. He’s my age, I’m 56. Two daughters, but I don’t think they’re very interested in his hobbies. And I don’t know how to contact them anyway.”

            I’d figure that out if I had to call them, but I hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. We hung up. Then I called the museum and asked for Marilyn. She wasn’t thrilled to hear from me either. “Why are you calling?”

            “You mentioned that Gavin Kantner had tracked down a second candle in the Braustein set. Do you know where? Or who?”

            “I’m afraid I don’t. He only mentioned it because he wanted me to be sure that nothing happened to the one we’re holding.”

            “Who would know? Does he have any family?”

            “Well, I can’t really—” She stopped, trying to think of a way to get rid of me. “His lawyer, maybe. Jared Collins.” She gave me his number and an email address. She didn’t quite hang up on me, but the call was over halfway through her “You’re welcome.”

            I called the number right away and left a voicemail. Then I saw I’d gotten a text in the last few minutes. Annoyed with myself for missing it, I took a look.

            

            THE RIVER. 4 O’CLOCK.

            ANGELA G.

 

            What the hell? I called the number the text had come from, but got no answer. No voicemail message, either. Nothing. Probably a burner phone from a corner electronic store.

            So I checked the time. A little after three. Then I texted OK.

            I sat and thought for a few minutes. The office was too quiet. I needed Rachel.

            My phone buzzed. Rachel. “Wow, you really are psychic.”

            “Yeah, I felt a disturbance in the Force. Actually I’m just calling to let you know that I’ll be home late. Paperwork.”

            “Late? And here I am, slaving over a hot stove—”

            “Shut up. What’s going on?”

            I told her about the case so far. “So now I’ve got to go meet the girl and hopefully find out what’s going on. Did she steal the candle? Did she use it to bring the chandelier down on Williams’ skull? Is she going to do something like that to me? Inquiring minds want to know.”

            “Are you going to tell your client?”

            I’d already decided that. “Not yet. He lies to me, I withhold information from him. Serves him right.”

            “I love that you’re so mature and not at all like a sixth grader. Just be careful. I didn’t get married just so you could get yourself killed a week after the honeymoon. Remember that”

            “Words to not get killed by. Love you.”

            “Whatever.” She hung up.

            I finished my coffee and went to the bathroom. I’d be early, but that’s usually a good idea when you don’t know what to expect from a meeting. I just hoped nothing fell on my head. 

The Candle Museum, Part Four

Wendy was still working when I got to The River. I nodded to her as I took a stool at the bar. 

            “More questions?” She grimaced. “I’m sorry I ever swiped right on that guy.”

            “Not right now.” I glanced around. No sign of Angela. “You may have a chance to meet your best friend, though.”

She stiffened. “He’s coming here?”

“Not him. Her.”

“Her who—oh.” She cocked her head. “Really?”

            “If she lives up to her text. I’m a little early.”

            “Okay, well—want a drink? On me this time.”

            I ordered a beer. It was late enough.

            People were starting to come in from work for one, or two, before heading home. The TV showed the baseball game, and the jukebox played the latest hip-hop hits. I sipped my beer, watching the door.

            At 4:15 the door opened and Angela Greenwood came inside.        

            Chapman had sent me some photos, and I’d looked over her selfies on social media. She was short, with a round face and short brown hair. She stood at the door, looking around until I waved, then made her way to my barstool. “Are you Tom Jurgen?”

            “That’s me.” I looked over at Wendy. “And that’s your friend Wendy.”

            “Huh?” She gazed at the bartender, confused.

            “Hi.” Wendy came over. “I don’t know what he said, but I’m sorry about everything. Buy you a drink? On me.”

            “Okay, what’s going on?” Angela took a step back.

            “I’ll explain. Let’s find a table.”

            “Right. Uh, vodka tonic?” She looked Wendy over, as if trying to remember her, then followed me to a table in the back.

            I explained about Wendy. Angela finally relaxed a little, but kept her eyes on the nearest exit. She thanked Wendy when she brought over her drink. “I’ve been here before,” Angela said, sipping cautiously. “It’s close to the museum. She does look kind of familiar.”

            “How did you get my number?” I asked.

            “Bob. Bob Chen, he said you were asking questions, you gave him your card.”

            That was lucky. Good or bad remained to be seen. “That’s right. Are you all right?”

            “I’m fine.” She drank again. “It’s just—you’re working for Justin, aren’t you?”

            “Justin Chapman, yes. You were supposed to go to New York. He called me because you never showed up. What happened?”

            “What happened is—” She shook her head. “He used me. He was just using me. Asshole.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “He’s only interested in that candle. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. He wanted me to steal this candle from the museum, not the candle, really, but the holder—”

            “The Braustein Candle, yeah. Part of Gavin Kantner’s special collection.”

            She looked up, surprised. “Yeah. He promised me $500 and a trip to New York. So I took it, and then he said to just send it to him. FedEx or whatever.” She curled a hand into a fist and rapped it on the table, shaking my beer. “What about my trip to New York? I know, I know, but I was really looking forward to it, more than the money, I’ve never been to New York. He said he’d send me more money, but by then I was really pissed and I hung up on him.” 

            She sat back and rubbed her face. “He calls me back and he’s yelling, and it gets—scary. I’m scared and I’m mad, so I hang up again and leave. That was Friday. I was supposed to fly to New York on Saturday.”

            Today was Tuesday. “Where have you been?”

            “With a girlfriend. I didn’t even look at my phone until yesterday. I was mostly drunk all weekend, and then hungover. Bob called and said someone trashed my apartment, and then I knew. And then after what happened to Mr. Kantner—well, I’m just scared now.”

            “Scared of who?”

            “Justin. After he trashed my apartment.” She stared at me. 

            “Wait—Chapman’s here in Chicago? Have you seen him?”

            “No. But it must be him. All he cares about is that stupid candle.” She scowled. “Tell him—tell him I don’t have the candle. I hid it. Tell him he can have it for $5,000.” She picked up her glass. “I should ask for more, but he’s still a friend of my father.” She stood up. “I’ll text you when I’m ready to hand it over and get the money.”

            “Hang on.” I said more questions. A lot more. But Angela was on her way to the door and I couldn’t stop her without a flying tackle. I watched her leave, then carried my beer and her glass up to the bar.

            Wendy took the empty glass. “What happened?”

            “I’m not sure.” I finished my beer and dropped a few dollars on the table. “Just more questions.”

 

Back home I sat in front of my computer, arms crossed tightly, trying to calm myself down. Had I been fooled by a New York City area code” Was Chapman here in Chicago, looking for his precious candle. Did he kill Kantner? I didn’t want to think I’d taken money from a murderer.

            I’m pretty even-tempered, I think. Rachel might have her own opinion on that. As a reporter and a P.I., I’m used to people lying to me. I just never like it, especially from a client. I needed to take a few minutes to make sure I could stay focused before I made my next phone call.

I took a sip of water and called Chapman’s number. Again he didn’t pick up, but when I left my message, he called back within 15 seconds. “You talked to her? Where is she?”

            “She’s fine. The question is, where are you?”

            “I’m—” My question made him uneasy. “What do you mean?”

            “Where are you exactly? Are you really in New York?”

            He groaned softly. “All right. Yes, I’m here in Chicago. At a hotel off Michigan Avenue. When Angela didn’t show up, I—I flew out here, but after I checked her apartment, I didn’t know what to do. That’s when I hired you.”

            “And lied to me.” 

            “Look, I never actually said I was here, or where I was. I’m sorry. It’s just very important that I—that I find out where Angela is.”

            “Or that you find the candle holder? Did you break into her apartment to look for it?”

            “Damn it.” He sounded annoyed. “I snuck into her building behind someone else, and she told me once that she’d taped a spare key inside the air vent down the hall. I was worried about her—”

            “But you were worried about the candle too, right?”

            “What do you want from me?” he snapped. “Yes! That candle holder—the three of them—they’re incredibly valuable! You have no idea!”

            “Is it worth $5,000 to you?”

            “What do you mean? Do you have it? Are you—”

            “Angela’s got it. She wants $5,000 for it.”      

“Five thousand . . .” He heaved a sigh of relief. “I hope she’s willing to take a check.”

“She didn’t say. She’s pretty mad at you, though. If I were you, I’d find out if your bank has a branch near your hotel that’s still open.”

“When can I get it?”

“I don’t know. She said she’d text me a time and place. You’d better get the money and be ready when I call you.”

“All right, all right. It’s after five, I don’t know—”

“I have another question.” I had to ask it.

“What now?” His impatience was starting to fray.

“Did you use the Braustein candle you already own to kill Gavin Kantner?”

            I expected an angry eruption of denial. Instead Chapman got quiet. “No. I’d never—we were friends once. Years ago. Then we were rivals for the same things—antiques, artifacts, things like that. He cheated me, and I cheated him back. So we became enemies. But I never wanted to see him dead. Dead.”

            He sounded sincere, but I’ve been fooled plenty of times. This was when I really missed Rachel. She’s not exactly a human lie detector, but she can usually pick up deception. 

“Do you have any idea who has the third holder?” I asked. “The one Kantner was going to buy?”

Chapman thought for a moment. “It must be Noland. Glen Noland. He’s on the board there too. He was admiring the Braustein, I heard.”

Noland. I remembered him from the museum website. “Okay. I’ll call you when I hear from Angela.” I hung up.

Now what? I needed Angela to call me back before I could do anything. The waiting, as Tom Petty said, is the hardest part.

For something to do, I started looking deeper into Glen Noland. Just in case he really did have the third candle holder. He had a web page at the U of C site, a LinkedIn profile, and his own personal web page. It mostly displayed his collection of teacups and photos of his journeys around Central and South America, along with links to his articles. Then there was the personal stuff—he owned a big house in Aspen and another one in Napa, in addition to an expensive condo in Hyde Park. Not bad for someone on a professor’s salary. He also had a few photos of his family: wife, two daughters, one son—

            I stopped and zoomed in on the photo of his children: Adele, Rose, and Len.

            Len. The kid from the museum gift shop. “My father made me take this job part-time.” 

            Okay. It didn’t necessarily mean anything. But it made me curious.

            I looked at his photo more closely. I hadn’t paid his face much attention before, but now it seemed familiar, like an actor on a TV you’ve seen in something else. After a moment, my memory kicked in. When the chandelier had crashed down on Kantner yesterday, I’d seen him talking to Len before he dashed to the restroom. What was he doing there?

            I found an email and an office phone number for Noland. I left messages at both. When my phone buzzed 10 minutes later I grabbed it eagerly, but it wasn’t Angela. 

“This is, uh, Glen Noland. Returning your call. What’s this about?”

            “Thanks for calling me back. I’m interested in the Braustein candle that’s missing from the Candle Museum. I’m a private detective.”

            He was cautious. “What about it?”

            “Do you own a Braustein candle yourself?”

            One second. Two. “Why are you asking? Who the hell are you, anyway?”

            “Like I said, I’m a private detective. My client has been trying to collect all three of the candles for quite some time.” True enough, just not the reason I was hired. “One has disappeared from the museum, but I’ve been told that you have a second one that you were going to sell to Gavin Kantner. Before his death. Is that true?”

            “Who told you that? Was it Chapman? Justin Chapman?”

            “How do you know Justin Chapman?”

            “We all know each other. It’s a very small circle. Goddamn it, Chapman has been trying to get his hands on all three of the candles for years! I wouldn’t be surprised if he stole Gavin’s from the museum.”

            “Do you know about the legends associated with the candles? Their powers?”

            Again Noland grew guarded. “I don’t really—those are just fairy tales. I don’t have time for this. Don’t call me again.” He hung up.

            Huh. I sat and thought for a few minutes, trying to arrange what I knew into some kind of coherent story, just like I’d done as a reporter. What I came up with was a scenario no editor would have ever printed, and not just because it depended on a burning candle have a supernatural influence over the world around it. It was at least 50% speculation, based on assumptions I couldn’t confirm, and I wouldn’t be able to confirm them until I talked to Angela Greenwood. And a few other people.

            I stretched and checked the time. It was 6:15. When was Angela going to call?