Read Online Corpus Christmas by Margaret Maron - Free Book Online Page A

routine. And present.
     Which reminds me: Why are there no current inventory sheets? I find nothing later than 1972.”
    “The inventory hasn’t changed enough to justify a new one,” Peake snapped. “All the corrections have been notated on our master
     copy.”
    He strode over to the file cabinet nearest his desk and extracted the inventory folder. “I can have Miss Ruffton make you
     a copy, if you wish.”
    “You checked it thoroughly against the contents of the house when you took over?” asked Shambley.
    “Well, no. I saw no need when—”
    Shambley cut him off with a sneer. “You know what’s wrong with you, Peake? You’re lazy. Physically and intellectually. That’s
     why you fouled up at the Friedinger.” His eyes narrowed speculatively in his ugly face. “Or was it solely that?”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Peake, becoming cautious.
    “I think it’s time the board asked for a complete inventory. See if there’s been any ‘unauthorized deaccessioning’ down here.”
     He closed the file drawers he’d opened earlier and took the inventory folder from Peake’s suddenly nerveless fingers.
    “Listen,” Benjamin Peake blustered, “if anything’s missing, you can’t blame me. Everyone knows Dr. Kimmelshue was senile the
     last three years before he died. Anything could have happened then.”
    Roger Shambley turned his huge head and haughtily waved Peake aside. “
Permésso
,” he said languidly and left the office.
    Mrs. Beardsley was becoming heartily sick of Dr. Roger Shambley’s
permésso
. In a house this size, one would think a body that small could find a clear space in which to pass without shooing people
     aside as if they were witless flocks of chickens. And she wasn’t taken in by his air of haughty politeness. Mrs. Beardsley
     knew all there was to know about using manners as a stick to beat those one considered inferior to oneself. Not that she ever
     did, she told herself.
    Well, not without provocation, she amended.
    She would admit that she was disappointed when Dr. Shambley received the trusteeship she had sought. She might not have his
     degrees or his growing reputation as an art scholar, but certainly she knew more about the soul of this house itself than
     any outsider could hope to. And her income was several times his. She’d checked. Considering the Breul House’s financial difficulties,
     a trustee willing to give generous support should have counted for something, shouldn’t it? Nevertheless, she had swallowed
     her disappointment and welcomed him as graciously as possible and what did she get for her graciousness?
    Permésso.
    * * *
    Uptown, in the business office of Kohn and Munson Gallery, Hester Kohn listened in growing alarm as Benjamin Peake screamed
     in her ear about Roger Shambley.
    “For God’s sake, Ben, get hold of yourself,” she interrupted crisply. “
Have
you taken anything from the house?”
    “Of course, I haven’t!” he howled. “Then you’ve nothing to worry about.” “Yes, I have and you do, too, Hester. You didn’t
     hear the way he said ‘unauthorized deaccessions.’ That bastard! He picks things out of the air. You know what art historians
     are like.”
    “Give them a flake of blue plaster and they’ll prove a Giotto fresco once covered the wall,” the woman sighed. She looked
     up as her secretary entered with a letter that required her signature. “Hold on a minute, Ben,” she said and tucked the phone
     between her shoulder and ear while she signed, then told the secretary, “I want to see those consignment sheets before you
     call the shippers, and don’t forget to remind Mr. Munson about tomorrow night.”
    She waited until the secretary had closed the door behind her, then spoke into the receiver. “There’s no way Roger Shambley
     will start speculating about what really happened unless you give him that first flake of plaster.”
    But for several long minutes after she’d hung up, her hazel