Tradition of Deceit by Kathleen Ernst Page B

elbows, arms folded across her chest, she headed toward the phone. A moment later the murmur of conversation drifted to the kitchen.
    Owen said quietly, “She’s in bad shape.”
    â€œJust being in the mill made her anxious enough without … you know.”
    â€œIt feels like we walked into The Twilight Zone .” Owen settled onto a barstool. “I just can’t imagine what happened to Everett.”
    â€œWould he have gone to the mill alone?”
    â€œHe’s been going there for years.” Owen took an apple from a bowl and began turning it in his hands. “Jay knows the buildings as well as anybody, but all he sees are the historic structures and the stories they can tell.”
    Chloe leaned against the sink. “Doesn’t that about cover it?”
    â€œEverett’s take was unique. He took hundreds of photographs to document the Washburn Mill and everything left inside. But he also sees beauty there … ” Owen faltered. “He saw beauty there. He was an industrial historian with an artist’s eye.”
    â€œThis sounds like a cliché, but can you think of any reason why somebody would want to hurt him?”
    â€œ No . He was a great guy.” Owen’s eyes glistened, and he blinked furiously. “His courses were tough, but he was a good professor. Nothing made him happier than seeing his students get excited about historic buildings and stuff … God . Where am I going to find a new advisor?”
    Owen’s bewildered grief hurt Chloe’s heart. “The police will figure out who did this. I’m dating a cop and believe me, once they start an investigation, they don’t let go.”
    â€œEverett didn’t deserve something like this. I want his killer caught. Fast .”
    â€œMaybe nobody actually killed him,” Chloe said. “Maybe Everett had a heart attack in the mill, and the … the tenants didn’t know what to do, so they hid the body. Sister Mary Jude said that happened once before.”
    â€œSister Mary Jude wants to believe the best about everyone, but I have a feeling that Everett happened to cross the wrong path at the wrong time. Maybe he startled some frat boys who’d snuck into the mill for a party last night. Or maybe one of the homeless people went berserk. Some of them are mentally ill.” Owen shook his head.
    â€œA cop named Crandall seemed pretty sure that one of the residents attacked Dr. Whyte,” Chloe said. “Have you met Officer Crandall?”
    Owen rotated the apple again. “Sure. The cops patrol through when they can. And Sister Mary Jude is there almost every day, trying to talk one more crazy into leaving the mill or something.”
    Chloe profoundly wished that Ariel had been given another project to work on. Any other project. It was hard to imagine a task that her friend was less suited for.
    Which is why I’m here, she reminded herself. She and Ariel were friends, but at the heart of Ariel’s invitation to visit was a plea for help. Their class at Cooperstown had been small—just fourteen people. During the two-year Museum Studies program they’d learned to work collaboratively, letting each member of the group shine in his or her own way. It was nice to think that the bonds forged back then still remained strong.
    Ariel plodded back into the kitchen. “Thanks for suggesting the call, Chloe. Talking to my brother helped a lot.” She pushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. “I still don’t know what to take to the potluck, though.”
    â€œWe’ll improvise,” Chloe said firmly. “What are those?” She pointed at a pile of old cookbooks on the counter.
    â€œI’ve been collecting Gold Medal cookbooks. And some are from the Pillsbury Bake-Off. Pillsbury’s mill is right across the river. We can’t exclude their story just because they were a Gold Medal competitor. Both helped make