She stood up, folding her arms on her chest. “Poor Priscilla Compton tried to keep him in line, but she had no idea how to control him.” She let that statement hang in the air a moment, as if to say that she herself could have whipped young Robert into shape if only Priscilla had consulted her. “Whenever he went back to Philadelphia to live with his family, he would engage in epic battles with his father over friends, grades, his truant behavior: everything that means something in the life of an adolescent. Things came to a head when he graduated from high school. Yes, he did graduate, partly because he was a gifted scholar, and partly because his father’s prominence ensured that he be given however many second chances he needed to complete his high school diploma. But Robert wasn’t appreciative of his father’s efforts on his behalf. He walked across the stage at graduation, went home, and had a monumental fight with his father. It ended with Robert collecting his belongings and his father’s car keys, and disappearing. It was easier to disappear in 1979 than it is today. Robert Ellis vanished without a trace.”
She searched in the Inquirer archives page and brought up an article dated June 10, 1979. She stood beside me as I zipped through the article. The reporter touched on Robert’s juvenile delinquent past and the fight on graduation night that brought police to Delphos late at night. Neither Ruth nor Thurman would speak with the press, and the police couldn’t comment since Robert was still a minor, so the reporter could only speculate as to the cause of the disagreement. But the results were obvious. Thurman and Ruth couldn’t stop the publication of photographs of the smashed windows along the front of the house. Mrs. Wirdle pointed to a photo of a cracked garden gnome on the floor of the living room surrounded by splintered glass. “This picture won a prize at the Chester County Fair later that summer. Juanita Featherow wanted to win a more prestigious journalism prize, but she had to settle for purely local recognition.”
A glance at the photo credit confirmed that it had indeed been taken by Juanita Featherow. I looked up at the librarian with awe. “Did you know her too?”
She bristled. “I told you, knowledge is my calling. Of course I knew her.” Her lips curved in a secret smile. “I know you too, if it comes to that, Daria Dembrowski. You acted in all the plays in high school, even though you never got the leading role. Your brother played basketball and hung out with a rough crowd, smoking marijuana on street corners. He took off for Hollywood after college, but now he’s back in town with no screen credits to his name. He could have gone the way of Robert Ellis, if it comes to that, but he didn’t.” She paused triumphantly. “Please give him my regards when you get home this evening.”
I could only nod, feeling like the woman at the well in the Bible when Jesus told her everything she’d ever done. I had no idea this ancient woman was keeping tabs on me and my family to this day!
Finally I found my voice. “Do you know what caused that big fight between Robert Ellis and his father?”
Her elation faded. “His parents never spoke about the incident. I did hear that they hired a private investigator to find him, but that individual was unsuccessful. Then three years later the car turned up in New Jersey, crashed into a ditch, but there was no trace of Robert. His parents had him declared legally dead, although his body was never found. Thus his younger brother John was in line to inherit Delphos when it went up in smoke.”
“Thank you for all your help, Mrs. Wirdle. I’ll remember you whenever I can’t find the answers to my questions.” And I meant it.
I left the library with a lot to think about, but no more time to spend on it. I needed to deliver Ruth’s gown, and find out if there was any more sewing I needed to do for the TV filming. It wasn’t until I was already out the door and halfway home that I realized I should have asked Mrs. Wirdle what she knew about Professor Burbridge’s death. She was such a font of knowledge, otherwise known as a busybody, that I felt sure she could tell me something I didn’t know about the professor. Next time.
I grabbed a quick lunch at home, after carefully checking to be sure that nothing untoward had happened to the house while I was gone. The only thing I found was Aileen, fast asleep on the living room couch with Mohair curled up on her shoulder. I backed out of the room without making a sound.
After lunch I bundled up Ruth’s red gown and slung my bag over my shoulder. I made sure to bring along a tape measure and other sewing implements, in case Cherry persisted in wanting me to make a period costume for Louise.
I sent a text to McCarthy during the bus ride to Compton Hall—“Let me tell you about Robert Ellis....”—and then switched my phone to “Do Not Disturb.” I enjoyed tantalizing the guy, I guess.
Chapter Fourteen
The bus let me off down the street from Compton Hall. As I approached the house, I saw Priscilla dozing in her rocker on the porch. I decided not to disturb her.
I saw Jamison Royce working by the side of the house. I waved and walked over to speak to him. He was on his knees by the flower border, digging small holes a few inches apart from each other.
“What are you doing?”
He sat back on his heels and looked up at me. “You sound like that TV woman, always asking me what I’m up to. I expected you to shove a camera in my face.”
I laughed. “She does that to me too. Actually, I have a question for you. I was wondering if you have any more of Priscilla’s Japanese maples, or did they all go to the dump?”
He turned back to his digging. “All gone. Why, did you want another one?”
I nodded. “I picked up a couple the other night and planted them by my front porch. But someone came by, in broad daylight, even, and tore them up and set them on fire. It broke my heart to see those lovely trees all burned up.”
“Bummer.” Royce picked up a flat of petunias and started pressing them into the holes he’d dug. “Sorry I can’t help you, but I carted that whole load off to the dump. They’ll be shoring up the landfill by now.” He shrugged and kept working his way down the row. The sun shone on his peculiar work hat with the flaps pulled down to cover his ears. I didn’t see how he could stand to wear that hat on these hot summer days. Maybe he was particularly sensitive about going bald, or had some kind of problem with his ears. But I was not Randall, so I resolved not to call attention to his unusual headwear.
“Okay, thanks for letting me know. Say, do you know where Miss Ruth is, by any chance?”
He shrugged again, still busy with his petunias. “Haven’t seen her,” he grunted.
I left him alone with his plants.
As I walked away, I reflected on how odd it was that Jamison Royce felt no sadness or distress of any kind over the fate of those beautiful Japanese maples. The news that they had been burnt to a crisp didn’t touch him at all. For a man whose life was devoted to caring for plants, he showed a surprising lack of devotion to them. Maybe it was just a job to him. I thought of the fierce passion that Mrs. Wirdle brought to her job as a librarian, asserting that knowledge was her calling. She had dedicated her whole life to the public library, and would certainly never retire until she was physically unable to look up one more title or shush another patron. I wondered how long Jamison Royce had been in the business of caring for plants.
I pulled out my phone and typed in “Laurel Landscape Arts,” but came up with nothing. I tried a couple of different searches to try to locate his business online, but was not able to find it. He must promote his business through word of mouth or local advertising only. That was unusual these days. I wondered how Priscilla had found out about him. Of course, online advertising would be unlikely to reach Priscilla Compton, that lover of a bygone way of life.
I found myself chuckling as I walked up the front porch steps. Priscilla still dozed in her chair, so I left her alone.
The furious voice of Carl Harper assaulted me as I passed the open kitchen door on my way inside. I peeked in just to check—yup, he was on his phone. He made no a
ttempt to tone down his volume, so I could reasonably conclude that the call was not private, right? I paused in the doorway to listen.
“Listen, you have got to go through with this job! If they decide to come after us, it’s not me that’s gonna take the heat. Your neck will be on the chopping block. Got it?” He paused a moment to listen. “No! I won’t put up with that! If you back out, I will make your life a living hell.” Another pause while the caller shouted something at Harper. I could almost make out the words. Harper hollered back, “Go to hell!” and threw his phone across the room. I ducked out of the doorway and practically ran down the hall to get away from him. In his present mood, I doubted that my glib conclusion that his conversation was not private would mollify him in the slightest.
But what did it mean? Harper was in contact with someone—in cahoots, one could argue. This someone was reluctant to go through with a job, and Harper feared that “they” would come after the two of them. Could that job be a hit? Was Harper soliciting another murder, and his cohort was reluctant to pull the trigger? Maybe he was talking about Noah! I pulled out my phone and turned it back on to find thirteen texts from McCarthy, as well as a missed call from him. But I didn’t have time for McCarthy right now.
I started typing a text message to Noah, and then abandoned it and dialed his number. I let it ring ten times, but it never went to voice mail. I took that as an ominous sign, and texted him to call me right away. I closed my eyes, willing my phone to ring, but nothing happened.
Several deep breaths later, I concluded that I would just have to go about my business while waiting to hear from Noah. I shook out Ruth’s red gown and draped it over my arm. “Ready or not, here I come,” I whispered to myself, and headed up the stairs to find Ruth to deliver her dress.
Ruth’s bedroom door was ajar. I knocked firmly. There was no answer. Since the door was open, I decided to go on in and leave the gown on the bed or over a chair, and be done with it. I pushed the door wide.
Ruth lay crumpled on the floor, her gold-tipped cane flung far from her outstretched hand. I ran to kneel beside her, my heart thudding. She was barely breathing—at least she wasn’t dead. But she wasn’t conscious, either. I stood up without touching her and ran to the doorway. “Help! Somebody, help!” I pulled out my phone and dialed 911, feeling a bewildering sense of déjà vu as I advised the dispatcher that I needed help for an elderly woman who was unconscious on the floor.
Randall appeared in the doorway while I was still on the phone. He took in the sight of Ruth crumpled up on the floor, and knelt beside her unresponsive form.
I finished my call and knelt down beside him.
“You called 911?” His face was unusually pale. I hoped he wasn’t going to faint on me.
I nodded. “The paramedics are on their way. They told me not to touch her unless I needed to.” I could hear the sirens coming already.
A moment later, a team of paramedics hustled into the room, followed by both Carl Harper and Jamison Royce. The two men started at the sight of Ruth unconscious on the floor. They both edged back out of the room to whisper together in the hall outside. I stood off to one side, shivering as I watched the paramedics working on Ruth. Randall stood silent by my side, clearly moved by the gravity of the situation. All of a sudden he put his hands on my shoulders and drew me close to him. I leaned back against his chest and closed my eyes, drinking in the comfort of the moment. Just for an instant it was as if we were still together, still a couple, still in love.
But that wasn’t reality.
I eased myself out of his embrace and took a step or two away from him. “I’d better go tell Priscilla what’s going on.” I ducked out of the room before Randall could say a word.
I ran down the stairs, cursing myself for taking the chicken way out, but not knowing what else to do. I didn’t want to think about Randall right now.
I headed for the front porch, where I’d last seen Priscilla dozing in her favorite rocker. Incredibly, she was still there sleeping, despite the flashing lights from the ambulance and fire truck that were pulled up to the front door. How could she still be asleep? Suddenly fear gripped me, and I ran to her side. I shook her shoulder gently, calling her name. I couldn’t believe my relief when she opened her eyes and said, “Is there something you wanted, dear?”
I took a deep breath, trying to calm the beating of my heart before delivering the bad news. I took her hand in both of mine. “Ruth fell in her room upstairs. She’s unconscious. The paramedics have to take her to the hospital.”
Priscilla stared at me, a disconcerting stare, as if she were having trouble focusing in on my face. “But Ruth is taking a nap, my dear.”
I pressed her hand. “No, she’s unconscious.”
Priscilla frowned, an expression I’d never seen on her face before. “She said she was going to take a nap. Are you sure she’s not just sleeping?”
“I’m sure. See, the paramedics are bringing her out now.”
I helped her to her feet, and we stood together by the porch railing to watch Ruth being loaded into the ambulance on a gurney.
“She wasn’t just sleeping, was she?” Priscilla’s mournful face tugged at my heartstrings.
I put my arm carefully around her shoulders. “No, she wasn’t. But the paramedics will take good care of her. I’m sure she’ll be okay.” I wasn’t sure of any such thing, but Priscilla looked so forlorn that I had to say something hopeful.
Together we watched the ambulance doors closing. It drove off with a blare of sirens.
Priscilla lowered herself back into the rocking chair. She swayed gently back and forth in her rocker, like she had throughout my entire childhood. She focused in on the children across the street making a fort for their dolls with tree branches.
“Look, my dear. Those girls must have torn those branches off my Japanese maples. I wish they would leave the poor trees alone.”
I looked. Indeed, the branches looked like they came from Priscilla’s Japanese maples. The two little girls probably gathered them up from the street or the side of the house, or asked Jamison Royce for them. “I bet you miss your Japanese maples, Miss Priscilla.”
Priscilla craned her neck to look at the garden in the front of the house. “All the maples are gone,” she said, in a voice of incredulity. “How could those tiny girls have done that?”
“You had Jamison Royce take them out, remember? For the TV show?” I sure hoped that she remembered, and that she had authorized their removal in a moment of lucidity. I would hate to think that this entire TV show renovation nightmare was done without the informed consent of the owner of the house!
“Oh, yes,” Priscilla said, her voice vague and uncertain. “I suppose he will put them all back when this whole thing is over.”
“I suppose so.” Though of course he wouldn’t put them back. Those trees were turning to mulch at the dump right now. But if I had anything to say about it, Jamison Royce would plant new Japanese maples in their place.
Priscilla leaned back in her chair and gave a tremulous sigh. “Ruth will hate it at the hospital.”
I forced a gay smile. “Oh, you know Ruth. She’ll probably start bossing all the nurses around, insisting on different food and telling them to stand up straight and address her as ‘ma’am.’”
Priscilla’s face broke into a delighted smile. “That’s Ruth, all right. You’ll go visit her there, won’t you, my dear. I would go, but I don’t think I can make it. Say you’ll go see her for me!”
What could I say? “Sure, I’ll go visit her this evening. I’ll let you know how she’s doing. Shall I fetch Louise to come sit with you for a while?”
She nodded, a faraway look in her eyes. “Ask her to bring some letter paper. I might want to write a letter to Robby.”
She might be better off calling John. I wondered if someone at the hospital would contact him, or if I should ask
Louise to do that. I left Priscilla on the porch and went in search of Louise. Odd that she hadn’t shown up when the ambulance and paramedics were here for Ruth.
I expected I’d have to search high and low for Louise. I started with her bedroom. The door was closed, but I could hear someone moving around inside. I knocked, and then pushed open the door without waiting for an answer. Louise was bending over her bed. She had two hard-sided suitcases open on the bed, and was feverishly shoving wadded up clothes into them. I stopped in the doorway.
“Louise. What’s going on?”
She whirled to face me. “What are you doing here? Get out of my room.”
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Don’t come near me!” Louise clutched a sweater to her breast like a shield. “If you come one step closer, I’ll scream bloody murder.”
I stopped and held out my hands, hoping to calm her down. “I’m not going to hurt you. What’s the matter? Why are you packing like this?”
Her frantic eyes scanned my whole body, and then she suddenly turned back to the bed. She must have decided that I wasn’t a threat. She shoved clothes into the suitcases faster than ever.
I watched her in some confusion. Clearly something had upset her badly. I could only imagine that Ruth’s situation played into her distress, if she even knew what had happened to Ruth. I watched her closely as I said, “Could you come down and sit with Miss Priscilla for a while? She’s upset after what happened to Ruth.”
“Upset, is she? Of course she’s upset! She thinks she’ll be next.” She flung open a desk drawer and searched through the papers inside.
“Which is why she needs you, Louise. You take care of her and will be there for her if something happens.” I’d always thought that the saddest part about growing old was watching the people around you, your peers, falling ill and dying. The fear that you might be next must haunt all elderly people.
Historically Dead Page 17