Murder at the Library of Congress - Margaret Truman [80]
Annabel told Mac about how Sue Gomara had discovered the envelope containing five discs and how she, Annabel, had taken a look at one of the discs on her laptop. Mac listened intently, a nod or grunt of understanding his only intrusion into her monologue.
“I’m sure these discs weren’t part of the original collection donated by this Aaronsen family. Other things in the box were dusty, yellowed. The envelope was new, the discs pristine. Someone put the envelope in that box recently.”
“Maybe it was Michele Paul,” Mac offered.
“Why would he do that?”
“To hide the discs for whatever reason he may have had. Cale Broadhurst told me the last time we played tennis that one of the biggest problems at the library is finding the time and manpower to go through donated collections. He said some collections sit for years before anyone gets around to really seeing what’s in them. Sounds to me like a perfect place to hide something.”
“Unless an intern is given the order to go through them. Let’s say you’re right, Mac. Let’s say that Michele Paul put the discs there to hide them. Why? All his other research was neatly filed in his apartment. If he had wanted to conceal the discs, I don’t think he would just plop them in a box in the stacks.”
“You’re probably right, Annie. The discs might or might not have relevance to his murder. They could be important for your article.”
“I’m sure they are, which is why I’m determined to go through all five of them tonight before they’re turned over to Cale. Speaking of that, I’d better get started.”
“Go to it. I’ll whip up something for dinner.”
“Order in from the hotel. Something simple. Crab bisque and a salad?”
“Okay. Anything else I can do to help?”
“Yes. Keep the coffee coming and give me an occasional neck massage.”
“You’re too easy, Annie.”
Annabel worked steadily at the computer in the bedroom they’d set up as an office, the soft strains of Mozart and Haydn, and Rufus’s body wedged beneath the desk at her feet, keeping her company. Mac stayed up, too, popping in occasionally to deliver a fresh cup of coffee and to knead his wife’s lovely neck.
At three, Annabel got up from the computer for the first time and went to the living room, where Mac had dozed off in a recliner. Her presence woke him.
“More coffee?” he asked sleepily.
“No. I need to talk.”
He smiled, stood, and stretched. “Find something of interest?”
“I think so.”
They sat side by side on the couch.
“Mac, I was wrong.”
“About what?”
“About the discs. I don’t believe the material on them is Michele Paul’s research.”
“Oh? What’s brought you to that conclusion?”
“Some of the entries on them. They mention Michele in the third person.”
Mac laughed. “Maybe he was like some of those athletes and politicians who refer to themselves in the third person.”
“I don’t think so. If he was that sort of person, he had some pretty harsh things to say about himself.”
“A masochist who speaks in the third person?”
“Mac.”
“Sorry. Go ahead, I’m listening.”
“Much of the material on the discs—I’ve gotten through three of the five—is devoted to possible sources of information that might lead to the Las Casas diaries. Some concern the mythology of the diaries, why some experts consider them a possibility, why others are convinced they’re a myth.”
“That’s all good for you and your article.”
“Yes, it is, it’s virtually the theme—and I’ve been making good notes for that purpose. I’ve also copied off sections onto another disc of my own.”
His eyebrows went up. “Think twice about that, Annie.”
“Just for my recollection when I’m writing the article. I don’t have time to make all the notes I need. I’ll erase it when I’m done.”
Mac excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he returned, Annabel was back in the office.
“Look at this, Mac.” She brought up a file from the second disc.
He read over her shoulder as she scrolled down. It was a long series of rambling thoughts on the Ovando family of Seville, Spain. Don Nicolás de Ovando, Annabel knew, had been appointed governor of the islands and