Front Page Teaser lhm-1

by Rosemary Herbert

  In her work, Liz often found the requirement of noting people’s ages not just a thankless task but one that sometimes caused her sources to balk or clam up. Early on, she learned to ask for ages only after securing the quotes she needed from people. Now, she silently thanked the reporters who had done their duty and reported Mayhew’s age at the time of their writing. On one Internet site, she was able to take the many Douglas Mayhews with listed telephone numbers in the Northeast and narrow the search by age. This left just five, including two in Maine (Douglas Mayhew, Junior and Senior), one in Worcester, one on Cape Cod, and one in Brookline, a city bordering Boston.

  The Brookline number, which Liz dialed first, seemed the most promising. “You have reached the infernal machine of Dr. Douglas Mayhew. Please speak loudly after the beep,” the voice-mail message announced. Liz left a message and went on to phone the others. Luck was with her. The first Mayhew of Boothbay Harbor, Maine, said he knew the other, in Port Clyde, since both were in the boat business. Neither of the Maine Mayhews, he said, had ever headed “any school, anywayuh.” The Worcester Dr. Mayhew was a dentist. Finally, Douglas Mayhew of Cape Cod was not in. His message began with a segment of the rock group No Doubt’s song, “Spiderwebs”: “Sorry I’m not home right now / I’m walking into spiderwebs / So leave a message and I’ll call you back.” It finished with a young man’s voice saying, “Hey, I’m not home. So leave a message.” It was hardly the message of a retired headmaster, but Liz left a message anyway. The young man might have a relative of the same name who was the headmaster’s age.

  Waiting for replies, Liz looked in her purse for coffee money. She hadn’t been to the bank in such a long time that she was down to a few dollars. Hoping to find change at the bottom of her bag, she dug deeper, only to have her fingers encounter a plastic bag filled with something soft: the cigarette butts she’d collected from the taxi. Scolding herself for forgetting about them, she immediately phoned Cormac Kinnaird.

  The man might be unreadable when it came to personal interaction, but he was unreserved in his enthusiasm to get his hands on this evidence. As the two were about to arrange a meeting time and place, Jared Conneely stopped by Liz’s desk. Noticing she was on the line, he wrote on a scrap of paper, “I regret to inform you that you are on the ‘New Year’s resolutions of the rich, famous, and infamous’ beat today. Stop by the city desk at your first convenience.” Liz silently mouthed “OK” and continued her conversation with Cormac

  “I’ve just been assigned a story I can at least begin to work on in the newsroom,” she told him. “And I’m hoping I can linger here to receive a return call from a potential source on the Johansson case.”

  “Say no more. I know where the Banner’s building is. If I can park in your lot, I shall stop by and pick up the stuff on my way to Northeastern. I’ve got to meet with a student at two-thirty, so I’ve got some flexibility. If you have a minute, we could have coffee. If you’ve got more time, I could take you out to lunch in Chinatown.”

  “By the time you get here, I’ll know more about my schedule. If you don’t mind winging it regarding my availability, that would be great.”

  After hanging up, Liz noticed the light flashing on the phone, indicating a call had come in while she was on the line. Actually, two calls had come in. One was from the young Cape Codder who said, “Hey, it’s Doug Mayhew. Are you gonna put me in the pay-puh? Cool. Call me back.” And he left his number.

  The other was from the much more gentlemanly Dr. Mayhew of Brookline. “Hello, Miss Higgs. This is Dr. Douglas Mayhew, former headmaster of the Wharton Alternative School, responding to your message.” He left his phone number.

  Down at the city desk, Jared Conneely was making exaggerated waving signals, urging Liz to approach the desk. Liz raised one finger to indicate she’d be there in a minute. Then she dialed the Brookline telephone number.

  After introducing herself, Liz quickly realized why the headmaster had referred to her as “Miss Higgs.” He was hard of hearing. While Jared changed his wide-armed signal to a one-fingered, schoolmarmish scolding motion, Liz said loudly, “I’m writing an article about New Year’s resolutions and whether they actually lead to a genuine kind of resolve in young people. I thought I’d call on you, hoping your years of experience with troubled young people would help to anchor my article.”

  “I’m flattered that you ask. I suppose I could make myself available, but I’m not good on the phone. I’m going deaf, you see.”

  After arranging to meet Dr. Mayhew in two hours, Liz phoned Father James, Department of Youth Services chaplain, and set up an interview and photo shoot of the girls in his care for an hour after that. Then she rushed down to the city desk.

  Before Jared could whine or Dermott could bark at her, she told the city editor, “Thanks to Jared, who gave me a heads-up about the New Year’s resolution piece, I’ve already gotten a jump on the article. I’ve arranged to talk to a long-time teacher of troubled teens. Then, I’ll interview a group of adolescent girls who are Department of Youth Services detainees to get their take on whether New Year’s resolutions are a setup for failure or the occasion for truly resolving to take charge of some aspect of living.”

  “But we had in mind a celebrity piece. Didn’t Conneely tell you?”

  “Great idea for a sidebar!” Liz exclaimed. “And a byline for Jared, if he can afford the time,” she smiled, knowing how difficult it was to get celebrities to respond to such questions on short notice. “I’m sure the ‘Here’s the Buzz’ gals or the society editor would be glad to give him some contact info.”

  Like every editorial assistant in the newsroom, Jared lived for such opportunities. While he might have been the first to admit celebrity chasing was not his cup of tea, a byline was not a thing to turn one’s back on, and he knew it. Even his customary pallor disappeared as, smiling broadly, he piped up, “I’m on it!” and made a beeline for the Buzz gals’ office before Dermott could object.

  Returning to her desk to write up photo assignment sheets, Liz found her phone ringing. The caller was Olga Swenson. “I’ve gotten my hands on Ellen’s book list,” she said. She sounded shaken. “There’s something else I should tell you, too. The police have had the walls in Veronica’s room stripped.”

  “Stripped?”

  “They’ve taken down the wallpaper.”

  “Did Erik tell you when they did this?”

  “No. I haven’t spoken to him since yesterday morning. I’m sure he would have mentioned it if it had occurred before then.”

  “Then, how do you know it was done?”

  “I’m here at the house now.”

  “May I meet you there in about three quarters of an hour? I’d come sooner but I’m waiting for another person to help me with the case.”

  “I don’t like to sit here alone. It gives me the willies. I feel so useless, Liz!’

  “Don’t be silly. Think about all you’ve accomplished today. I have an idea. You know where the copy shop is in Newtonville?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take that list there and make a couple of copies of it. Then I’ll meet you back at Ellen’s. You could wait in the car if you like and we could go back in together.”

  Olga agreed and ended the conversation just in time for Liz to turn and see Cormac Kinnaird, sporting a visitor’s badge, enter the newsroom. He was carrying a ribbon-wrapped vase filled with red tulips.

  “I didn’t know if the newsroom ran to vases,” he said, giving Liz a peck on the cheek. He picked up the plastic bag of cigarette butts.

  “Not a very fair exchange,” Liz said, smiling. “I’m afraid I can’t take you up on the lunch offer,” she said, and told the doctor about her appointments with Olga and Dr. Mayhew. “But I could offer you a very quick cup of coffee in our cafeteria.”

  “You have too much on your plate. You go take care of those appointments and tell me about them this evening at dinner. We’ll make it on the late side, so you have time to dress up. I’m taking you t
o a rather nice place, if that’s all right with you. Do you know the restaurant, Upstairs at the Pudding? Shall we meet there at eight?”

  Riding the escalator to the newsroom’s lobby, side-by-side with the doctor, Liz remembered the redhead in the bar.

  Apparently, Cormac was not put off by Liz’s perplexed expression.

  “Deadlines become you,” he said.

  Chapter 17

  Olga Swenson was sitting in her car when Liz startled her by tapping on the older woman’s steamy window. Without a word, Olga led Liz into the house on Fenwick Street. Standing aside to let Liz enter first, she let out a sigh. With some surprise, Liz noticed the smell of alcohol on Olga’s breath.

  Olga did not take off her coat but led Liz straight up to Veronica’s bedroom. A scrap of yellow “CRIME SCENE” tape provided the answer to Liz’s unasked question: “How did Mrs. Swenson know the stripped wallpaper was the work of the police?”

  Inside the room, everything was in disarray. Plastic sheeting covered a bed heaped with stuffed animals and dolls, while trash bags appeared to be stuffed with other trinkets and toys.

  “Veronica loved her Madeline wallpaper,” Olga said. “We purchased it for her when she was five. I’m not sure we could find it again if we tried. Hasn’t she suffered enough without having her room vandalized by the authorities?” She sat down heavily on the only available piece of furniture in the room, a child-sized wooden chair. “Why would they do this?” she nearly sobbed.

  As Liz moved to crouch down beside Olga, she realized she must have set this destruction in motion by reporting Veronica’s unusual request: “Please, Santa, bring me new wallpaper.” The police must be grasping at straws to regard that report as significant.

  Crouching, with tears in her eyes, Liz took Mrs. Swenson’s hands in her own but could not admit she knew the answer to the question. “I will do everything I can to find more of that wallpaper for you,” she promised. Standing, she pulled the older woman to her feet, then picked up a sizeable scrap of the paper from the floor. “Let’s make some tea and look over that book list,” she suggested.

  In the kitchen, Olga seemed to gather herself together, as she prepared coffee rather than tea. “I just can’t think of using those teacups,” she said. She did not take off her coat.

  Meanwhile, Liz studied the list, which recorded three months of Ellen’s borrowing records. Most titles were followed by the author’s name, a call number, and two dates, presumably indicating the date borrowed and date returned. In four cases, there was no return date. And, in the case of the children’s book, there were three renewals. Liz turned her attention to the titles and authors:

  The Friends of the Environment New Car Buying Guide by Harold Gold

  The Consumer Guide to New Car Ratings 2000

  Silent Knights by Josephine Henshaw

  Private Schools in Massachusetts: 1974 by the Private Schools Consortium

  How to Be a Perfect Stranger, edited by Stuart M. Matlins

  You Can Speak Arabic Program: Level One by Ahmed Sulieman

  Understanding Speech Impediments by Gareth Weiner

  Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White

  Everyday Life in Palestine by Nadia Mafouz

  How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found by Sara Nickerson

  Christmas Cookie Recipe Round-Up by Caroline Frost

  Lowering the list and lifting her eyes to meet the older woman’s, Liz said softly, “Mrs. Swenson, I must ask, are you surprised by the contents of this list?”

  Unwilling to speak, Olga nodded. Then she shook her head. Signaling Liz to remain seated, she stepped into the living room and then returned with a small stack of books including all but one of the books that were noted as not yet returned. The title How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found seemed to describe the state of the only book from Ellen’s list that remained unaccounted for.

  “I found this on the floor in Veronica’s room,” she said, lifting the copy of Charlotte’s Web. “The rest were on Ellen’s night table,” she added, pointing to the others. “Take them if you like. For now, I need to go home and collect myself.” Her tone was steely.

  “Please help me just a bit more,” Liz begged.

  But Mrs. Swenson shook her head

  “Think of Ellen . . . ,” Liz pleaded.

  “What do you think I’m doing, every minute of every day?” Olga snapped. She stood up and extended her arm to indicate that Liz should lead the way out of the house.

  “I hope you believe I mean to find your daughter.”

  “Please!” Olga said, slamming Ellen’s front door. Striding down her daughter’s front walk, she fumbled her car’s lock, muttered a curse, got into her car, and drove off without a backward glance.

  Standing on the sidewalk, Liz folded the list of books and tucked it into her purse. Then she stood still for a moment, regarding the piece of wallpaper in her hands. Damp and torn, it depicted twelve little girls in two perfect lines, and the last of them all was Madeline. The troublemaker. Liz knew it was time to find the Wharton Alternative School’s equivalent of Miss Clavel.

  It was just a few minutes past two o’clock when Liz rang the doorbell of Dr. Mayhew’s Brookline home. Standing across the street from a park graced with leafless weeping willow trees, the brown-stained, wood frame house appeared to have been built during the first years of the twentieth century. Its furnishings dated from the middle of that same time period, Liz noticed, as the former headmaster ushered her through his living room into his den.

  “Bachelor housekeeping,” he said apologetically, as the pair passed stacks of books and papers in the living room. He spoke in the booming tones of a man who is hard of hearing.

  “Looks more like scholarly housekeeping to me,” Liz said, matching his volume.

  “You’re too kind. I wish I could call myself a scholar. When I retired from Wharton, I had great hopes of writing a truly worthwhile study, but I suppose that was just another case of ‘the best-laid plans of mice and men.’ Please sit down, Miss Higgs.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t speak clearly enough on my phone message. It’s Higgins, Liz Higgins.”

  “Nonsense! If I’m going to be of any use to you, let’s be honest. I didn’t get your name right because I couldn’t hear it! Now, how can I help you?”

  “All right, I will be honest, then, too. I’m here for two reasons. One is to get some background for a story I’m writing on New Year’s Resolutions. Later today I shall be interviewing DYS-incarcerated girls about their resolutions and how likely they think they are to see them through.”

  “And, I take it, you want me to tell you what I’ve learned along these lines with my students. It’s a dull question, but I’ll help you. Nevertheless, I’m no fool. You’re really more excited about learning something else from me aren’t you? So why don’t we begin with that?” Dr. Mayhew said, smiling.

  “You’re right. I’m looking for a past student of yours, sir. His name is Al Leigh.”

  “Say again?”

  Liz raised her voice and enunciated carefully. “Al Leigh. L, E, I, G, H.”

  “I could hear you all right. But I can’t call to mind anyone named Leigh, Al or otherwise.”

  “I’m told he was perhaps Hispanic, despite the surname. Perhaps his full first name was Alberto or Alfredo? He would have been a student in 1973.”

  “No. No Albertos or Alfredos come to mind. Hmm, 1973. Just before the school closed. Al Leigh.” Dr. Mayhew shook his head and said again, “Al Leigh.” Then he exclaimed, “Ali! Of course you must mean Ali. Olive-skinned Ali. Oh, what was his last name? He didn’t belong in the company of those troublemakers. His only problem was his tongue.”

  “He was outspoken, foul mouthed?”

  Dr. Mayhew wore a wistful expression. “No, no, not at all. While the other lads turned the air blue with cussing if they were angry or agitated, Ali clammed up. He was tongue-tied, you see. And English was not his first language.” The headmaster paused, then
exclaimed, “Abdulhazar. That’s it. Ali Abdulhazar. The name was enough to make him the butt of the boys’ jokes. With his speech impediment and his accent, when he did manage to speak, he was the center of far too much negative attention from the other boys.”

  “He was bullied?”

  “I tried to keep them from bullying him, but there was only so much I could do, I’m afraid. When my back was turned, they circled him for the kill—figuratively, of course—like a school of sharks around a juicy tidbit. Most of those boys had been mistreated themselves, you see, so it rather came naturally to them to behave like that. Mind if I . . . ?” Dr. Mayhew said, picking up a pipe.

  “Not at all.”

  Dr. Mayhew made much of filling, tamping, and lighting his pipe. Finally, he went on: “It was no wonder he courted detention so often, usually by straying off school grounds. The other boys hated having to sit still in my office, but I think Ali rather liked it. First, he got away from the others by wandering off. Then, once he was rounded up, he had my protection for an hour or two. Even if watching me do paperwork had to be deadly dull, it beat being teased by the other boys. I hate to say it, but he may even have built his status by running off so much. The others saw him as devil-may-care, a quality they admired.”

  Dr. Mayhew fussed with his pipe some more. “Ali finally got them off his back when he was caught with that girl. What was her name? Of course the incident meant his days were numbered at Wharton, so he couldn’t enjoy the boys’ newfound esteem for him.”

  “What incident?”

  “In the Pinetum across the way, he was caught in some kind of compromising position with a young girl. The girl’s father was livid. He insisted Ali was masturbating while watching the girl dancing. Pretty girl, I remember, a strawberry blonde, dressed in some kind of scarves. Like that dancer, Isadora Duncan.” Dr. Mayhew paused to reignite his pipe. “The outfit was more unusual than revealing. Innocent-looking, I thought, not sexy. But the girl’s father was beside himself. Absolutely beside himself. The more he cursed and demanded explanations, the more tongue-tied Ali became.”