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. 12th 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 12th-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.
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