Brought to Book

by Barbara Cornthwaite

  Somehow I struggled out the door juggling the boxes of food and hanging onto Mia and praying that Ben wouldn’t chose this moment to run. He was screaming now, saying words that no seven-year-old should know, but at least he was walking with us. See that single mom with those brats? I could imagine the onlookers thinking. That’s what happens when you have no discipline in the home.

  I got the kids strapped into their car seats and got into my seat and breathed a sigh of relief. The child locks on the doors meant that Ben couldn’t get out and run away, no matter how upset he got. He was screaming and crying and flailing around and Mia was just crying because she’d had to leave Mc.Donald’s without eating much of her food. I was afraid to give her any—Ben might knock it out of her hand or something. I’d have to wait until he calmed down.

  The drive back to Wilkester was the reverse of the trip to Tacoma in more ways than one. Instead of the car being filled with happy praise songs to God there was rage and cursing. I knew it was a result of the trauma Ben had experienced in his short life, but it was still incredible to me. When he’d arrived at Ed and Kim’s home he was malnourished and physically abused. He had no belongings—not a single item that he could call his own. Even the clothes he was wearing were donated from the fostering agency. The Coles had given him love. They had given him clothing, toys, and books. They had played games with him, fed him well, and told him about Jesus. And now, when he was being given a special treat by someone who had no obligation to do anything for him, he was bitter and angry because he didn’t get the same cheap plastic toy as his sister. Couldn’t he even remember the song we’d been singing less than an hour ago?

  “The Lord has done

  Great things for us,

  We are glad.”

  And are you any better? said the voice in my head. Look at what the Lord has done for you. You were transferred from the kingdom of darkness to the kingdom of God. You were a child of Satan and now are a child of God. You were forgiven the mountain of sins that should have sent you to hell. You were blessed with every spiritual blessing in Christ. You have a home in heaven and eternal joy waiting for you. And here you are, getting bitter and saying it’s not fair because you’re not getting the same circumstances as someone else. Just like Ben, you want to reject the life God picked out especially for you.

  It was, in some ways, a terrible moment. There is nothing so humbling as realizing you have been acting like a hysterical seven-year-old—worse, actually, because your understanding is so much greater than his and you don’t have the excuse of a trauma-injured brain.

  “I’m sorry, Lord,” I whispered. “I am so, so sorry.” The last of my defences crumbled, and I felt like Mia, running with outstretched arms toward the one she loves. And His arms were outstretched too. Ben was still shrieking and Mia’s sobs sounded like hiccups, but the noise might have been Brahms’ lullaby for all the effect it had on my newly-peaceful soul.

  Chapter 11

  When I finished teaching American Lit the next day, Todd was waiting for me outside the classroom.

  “Well, well,” I quipped. “Just like old times.”

  The charming smile appeared for just a moment. “Hello, Miss Peters. I’m afraid I need to ask you to come down to the station again. I have some questions to ask you about the missing manuscript.”

  “Sure,” I said, wondering what else I could possibly be asked about.

  He drove me to the station without any small talk, and it made me uneasy. I was ushered into one of the old familiar interrogation rooms.

  “It’s odd how I keep getting involved in these crimes,” I said as we sat down. “I’ve gone my whole life without any contact with law enforcement, other than one speeding ticket when I first got my license. Witnessing one crime was extraordinary. Being a kind of witness to a second crime is almost unbelievable. I’m surprised I haven’t been arrested as the likeliest suspect.”

  He remained silent, looking down at his notebook. A cold feeling began to settle in my stomach.

  “I am a suspect? Again?”

  He looked up at me. The expression in his eyes was no longer aloof. I thought he looked pained.

  “If you could just answer a few questions for me?”

  I managed to nod.

  “When did you first learn about the Bradstreet manuscript?”

  I took a deep breath. “You mean that it existed? In college. I heard about it when it was discovered. We don’t have anything else that is in Bradstreet’s own handwriting. She wrote the poems in America in the 1640s, and her brother-in-law had them printed without her knowledge in London in 1650.”

  “Was she upset?”

  “It seems she was more than a little frustrated. She hadn’t had the chance to get the poems just the way she wanted them for print—it’s the way any author would feel if their rough first draft was published before they could polish it up. About twenty-five years later she had it re-published in Boston with her own corrections and additions. This manuscript that was stolen seems to have been made at that time. Whether it was one of the fair copies sent to the printer or one made for her children we don’t know.”

  “Hang on,” said Todd. “What’s a fair copy?”

  “Oh! It just means a perfect copy with no mistakes. You know, if you have to write things by hand in pen you make mistakes, cross them out, put in a word with an arrow where you forgot one—that kind of thing. And of course if you write with quill ink, you can’t erase any mistakes. So a fair copy was one that looked perfect, and a printer could use it to make up the plates of type for the printing press.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “This manuscript—just the one poem—turned up in the effects of one of her great, great, great…I don’t know how many greats it is. But one of her descendants, anyway. She had lots; eight children and forty-seven grandchildren and you can imagine how many each generation added to the number.”

  “It’s amazing it lasted through that many generations and didn’t get sold or something along the way.”

  “Well, her poetry was out of fashion for centuries, so there wouldn’t have been much market for it. It was preserved in an old family Bible for part of that time, at least.”

  “And it was discovered how?”

  “Whichever descendant it was that had owned it died in about 1997. They had a big enough collection of old books and things that they were all auctioned off. Someone bought a few of the books, including the Bible, and when they got it home they found the manuscript inside. The man had it authenticated and everything.”

  “And the college bought it from him?”

  “No, it was bought by Willard L. Jackson, who then later donated all the books in that Special Collections room. His portrait is the one hanging in there.”

  “And you told me it’s worth a lot of money. Do you know how much?”

  “No. Several thousand dollars at least, I’m sure. I don’t know how much Mr. Jackson paid for it and that was well over twenty years ago, so the price would probably be different now. I’m sure the librarians could tell you what it’s worth.”

  Todd spent a moment writing, and then looked up.

  “Do you know the code to turn off the library alarm?”

  “Goodness, no. I don’t even think full professors know that. I’d say the only people that would know it would be the librarians and the security staff. Possibly some other administrators. The library is connected to the administration building, you know, and it’s probably the same code for all of it. Or maybe not,” I said, frowning. “Wouldn’t it be better to have separate codes?”

  “I can’t say,” said Todd, and wrote some more in his notebook. Finally he put down his pen and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “I’m sorry to have dragged you in for more questioning today. The fact is, I got in a little bit of trouble for not having you searched yesterday, and I was ordered to investigate you a little more thoroughly.”

  “Searched! What for?”

  “Th
e manuscript.”

  I just stared at him.

  “Look at it from the chief’s point of view: it would have been extremely easy for you to do the crime. You were in the room by yourself. You know enough about forgeries and literature and particularly that manuscript to make up a fake. It wouldn’t have to be perfect, just good enough to make it look like it was supposed to be. You go in the room alone, pick the lock on the case or else use a key you’d somehow gotten a duplicate of, switch the manuscripts and conceal the real one under your jacket or something. You raise the alarm, slip the paper into your bag, and walk away with it. You could sell it on the black market and add to your meagre salary.”

  “But—but—I would never—”

  “I know that, Miss Peters. But recall that you were cleared from suspicion in Frank’s murder due to lack of evidence against you, not because you had an alibi.”

  “You mean you think the crimes are connected?”

  “They may be. Don’t forget that Frank asked you about forgeries. It wasn’t the property deed he meant—we know that now—so it might have been something to do with this.”

  “So now what?”

  “Now we wait to see if the real manuscript turns up for sale. And we investigate the people that the librarians remember letting into the room. For example, we need to see if Kevin Schmidt was ever in there. He might be connected to both crimes—maybe he thought he could use the money from the sale of the manuscript to hide some of his bad financial dealings at the college.”

  “Can I – I mean, if there’s anything I can do to help, will you let me know?”

  He smiled slightly and I immediately felt like an idiot. What in the world could I do—look for suspicious characters and follow them around?

  “That was a stupid thing for me to say,” I blurted. “Never mind.”

  He shook his head. “Not stupid. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say something stupid.”

  “Stick around, then,” I said. “Spend enough time with me and you’ll hear something before long.” It took me a second to realize what I’d said. Did I really just tell him to spend time with me? I could feel my ears turning red.

  He murmured something that I thought sounded like “Don’t mind if I do.” He rose from his chair and said more loudly, “You’re free to go. And we’ll let you know if we need your help.”

  “Ok,” I said, and made my escape.

  A couple days later I got a letter from Frank’s lawyer saying that the will had been proven, and the title deed to the bookstore was now in my name. I met Becky for dinner that day in a heavily distracted frame of mind. She was all excited about starting the classes for foster care and I was beginning to panic about making the decisions I had deferred until the store was actually mine. Now that it was, I was going to have to look at the possibilities in earnest.

  “I don’t know,” I moaned when she asked me if I was going to do foster care. I slumped pathetically in the restaurant booth. “Sometimes I think foster care is something I really want to do. But then my friend Carrie who teaches at the mission school wrote to me a couple days ago asking if I had decided to go there next year. The kids that are her students—it’s a mix of missionary kids and national kids—are so sweet. A couple of them have special needs, and they might be able to give them more support if I’m there. If they don’t get another teacher for the fall, they’ll really be stretched to their limit and may have to turn some national kids away. That makes me think I ought to go. I mean, lots of people could do foster care, but not many could go to the mission field. And then I worry that I’m going to rush into things and make a bad decision.”

  “Well, let’s look at this logically,” said Becky. “Just what are your options?”

  “The way I see it, I have three. One is that I sell the bookstore and use the money to fund my missionary venture. Another is that I stay here and do foster care. I could sell the books in the bookstore to a dealer and let our church use the building to start a Christian bookstore-coffee shop that aims to attract college students and other people in the town. The third option is that I just do what I’m doing for another year, and either sell the bookstore and books and keep the money for later or sell just the books and do the coffee shop idea. That would keep me from making a snap decision I might later regret. And keeping the status quo for a year seems to be the prudent course. But I don’t really want to do the same thing for another whole year! And would I really regret either of those other options?”

  “I see what you mean. What do your parents think?”

  “They think I should keep doing what I’m already doing, but they don’t really feel strongly one way or the other. And the thing is, I can come up with arguments on both sides. I read verses in the Proverbs that talk about not making hasty decisions, and I also read verses that say we should make the most of our time because the days are evil. I wish God would send me a clear message telling me what to do. I have a month to decide about PNG.”

  “PNG?”

  “Papua New Guinea. Oh! And I have another decision to make: I have this book that I have to figure out what to do with.” I explained about Matthew Wilke’s journal. “I feel like by suppressing the truth, I’m a party to a fraud. If I sell the journal to the family, they will probably hide it or destroy it. If I sell it to someone else or give it to the town museum, I’m sure the true facts will come out, and I will feel like I betrayed the Wilkes family. I really don’t have anything against them.”

  “Hmmm, that’s a tough one,” said Becky. “But I think you’re right; suppressing the truth is being party to a fraud. After all, Matt knows the truth and so do the police. The honest thing for the Wilkes family to do is to come clean about it. They’ve already been given the chance to do that. Maybe you should write them a letter, explaining that you’re going to give the journal to the town museum—which is what I think you should do—and giving them a chance to set the record straight before someone else makes a big story about it.”

  “I feel like they’ll hate me,” I said. “I don’t want to feel like their enemy.”

  “You can’t let that stop you from doing what’s right,” said Becky.

  “I don’t like making a fuss,” I pouted. “Live and let live is my style. I didn’t even make a stink when I was let go from UCSC unfairly. And yet here I am, mixed up in fraud and murder and theft…”

  “Almost as if God wanted to shake you up a bit.” Becky grinned.

  “He’s succeeded,” I said. “By the way, Kim sent me some toys for you. Someone gifted her a big box of play stuff and she said she already has enough. She thought you might be able to use them when you start fostering. I’ve got them in my car for you.”

  “Great! I’m getting my spare room all decked out as a kids room. I could use some more toys.”

  After we’d finished our meal and paid our bill, Becky came with me to my car.

  “I need to organize and clean out my trunk,” I said as I unlocked and opened it. The large box of toys had barely fit into the space, cluttered as it was with a bag I kept forgetting to take to the thrift store, a car jack, jumper cables, a soccer ball, and a crate of miscellaneous items with the books Todd had given me from Frank’s house perched on top.

  “Wow, those look old,” said Becky, pointing to the books.

  “They are,” I said. “I should have taken them into the store a few weeks ago. I just keep forgetting.” I looked at the books and felt like they were a perfect illustration of my ineptness. I had these major, life-altering decisions to make and all I was doing was mentally going in circles and blubbering “I don’t know what to do!” over and over. How could anyone as ineffectual as I make an actual difference in anyone’s life? I couldn’t even remember to put things away where they belonged.

  “Hey,” said Becky, sensing my discouragement. “In our weakness He is strong.” She pulled me into a hug. “Trust that God will guide you. He won’t let you miss His will if you are eager to find it.”

  �
�Right,” I said. I could feel some of the stress departing. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “No problem. And tell Kim thanks for the toys.”

  Right on cue, my phone rang.

  “Ha!” I said. “It’s Kim.”

  “I’ll let you chat,” said Becky, giving me a quick goodbye hug and leaving me to answer my call.

  “Hey, Kim.”

  “Katrina! You need to get over here right now.”

  “What’s wrong?” I said, visions of Ben or Mia gone missing racing through my mind.

  “You didn’t tell me about this manuscript theft! Ed just informed me that you were the one who discovered it!”

  “Oh, is that all? I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “Worry, shmurry,” she said. “You just didn’t want me to ask which detective was in charge of the case.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Never mind. You need to get over here anyway because I have to talk to you about the Fun Day you said you’d help with. You can fill me in on the theft at the same time.”

  “To hear is to obey,” I said.

  “That’s what I like to hear,” she said and hung up.

  The Cole home was somewhat chaotic when I arrived. Houdini the dog had gotten out again, Sam and Ben were arguing over whose turn it was to load the dishwasher, and Mia was sobbing because Josh was out looking for Houdini instead of playing a promised game of Uno with her.

  “Welcome to the madhouse,” said Kim. “And Deirdre’s friend Kelsey is coming over soon to work on a history project.”

  “Change of plans,” said Deirdre, coming into the room. “Kelsey’s grounded. I’m going to have to go to her house. Can Dad take me?”

  “You can ask him,” said Kim. “What did Kelsey do wrong?”

  “She lied to her parents. She said she was out with her cousin Matt but she was really out with her boyfriend—the one she’s grounded from seeing outside of school. She’s been doing it for weeks, I guess. Every Tuesday at three o’clock. She said she and Matt were going out to practice driving, but she was really driving around with her boyfriend.”