Jeff laughed, and Grace noticed he forgot to look at his silent phone.
“How is the work on your house going?”
“Slowly, but progressing. When you have to peel back layers to get to the original walls and window frames it takes a long time. But it will be worth it to see so much history come alive. The last time I stopped in, Todd Janicke had discovered ‘1892’ etched into part of the frame on a window. Pretty exciting!”
“You really love history, don’t you?”
“I’ve always loved history,” Jeff said. “That’s what got me into journalism in the first place.”
Grace, seizing an opportunity to pry his hidden past open, said, with a brief hesitation, “And how did you happen to get into journalism? I know you worked at a small paper because you told me about your interview with that young fire starter.”
Jeff studied the wall over her shoulder a moment, and Grace watched an internal struggle on his face. Then he looked into her eyes. “I know I don’t say much about myself. It’s a habit, I guess.” He took a deep breath and Grace thought his face slowly resolved itself into a decision. “When I finished college, I got a job as an assistant for an author who lived in the Smoky Mountains. It was a gofer kind of job, but I kept at it for a couple years. The hours were long, the pay low, and I didn’t learn much about writing. Research, yes. So I sent my resume out to several newspapers in a three-state area, and ended up with an interview at the Smoky Mountain Gazette, circulation 18,000. Again—long hours, low pay—but I was a news reporter, and it was romantic with the 1970s such a volatile time. Quite an education compared to college.”
He paused and glanced at his cell phone, willing it to ring. Then he looked up at Grace again. “A few years after that, I left for a newspaper with a little larger circulation. And I kept doing the same thing—moving to larger papers. I worked at the Richmond Times-Dispatch and the St. Paul Pioneer Press. A story I wrote for the Press got quite a bit of recognition, and the next thing I knew, I was at The Philadelphia Inquirer. I was in the big time! I loved the city, I was still relatively young, and life was exciting. I was a managing editor, but I still was able to write a story occasionally.”
He paused a moment. “We had a series of murders in Philadelphia, and I covered the serial killer, staying close to two of the detectives on the case. Eventually, I broke the story when they caught him. I won an award or two, enough to catch the attention of others in journalism circles. The next day the Chicago Sun-Times called me, and I moved to the Midwest and learned about a whole new region. Those times were some of the best in my life. From there I moved on to New York.” He smiled and added, “We have a love of history in common, don’t we?”
“Yes. In fact, I just stopped in to get my recorder and laptop because I’m going over to Endurance College to see an old friend, Sam Oliver, who’s the head of the history department. I found the obituaries for two of the Lockwoods. Still haven’t found one for Olivia, the writer of the diary.”
“Oh, yes, the diary. How is that going? Intriguing?”
“Amazing. She was so young and totally innocent about the ‘big city’ of Endurance,” Grace said, laughing. “I’m hoping Sam can fill me in on some facts.”
“Like what?”
“Well, the judge died May 20, 1894, the year after he had married wife number two, Olivia. But before she came into the picture, he’d had the usual childhood with a common school education. That’s where ‘usual’ ended. He went to Harvard and studied law with some impressive guy in Philadelphia, and then he came home and got involved in local politics. Circuit judge, and then he built your house. Dabbled, as you know, in a great many businesses. His first wife was a Jane Maud Spencer. Her death was really soon after they married, and she was only twenty-three when she died. Fell down the front stairway, losing an unborn child. They’d had a big society wedding and a honeymoon. She was quite the beauty. Joined the correct clubs and did volunteer work. Her death is kind of mysterious. The newspaper made the suggestion she might have tripped on the train of her dress.”
“But nothing more than that as far as whether it was an accident?”
“No. The same year he was made a federal judge and married Olivia Havelock. She was only seventeen and from a small town south of Endurance. He must have been forty-four and thinking about a run for the governor’s office. But he died suddenly of what they called gastritis. Here, I wrote down the description.” She pulled some papers out of her purse and unfolded them, checking for the right page. “Here it is. ‘Despite the care of his physician, who used moderate doses of subnitrate of bismuth, he died suddenly of gastritis. At his bedside were his wife, Mrs. Lockwood, and his attending physician. He was unconscious at the end.’ ”
“That seems strange. Why would a seemingly healthy man in his forties suddenly die of a stomach ailment? Some undiscovered illness? Something he ate? A fight? Surely not. No autopsy, I suppose.”
“You suppose right. So far I haven’t found any more mention of Olivia, the second wife. But maybe Sam will have a clue.”
“Sounds like quite the mystery to me.”
“Mysteries, plural. I’m becoming obsessed with this story. It’s crazy. All I did was look for information on your house. The deeper I dig, the more mysteries I seem to find.”
Suddenly, Jeff’s phone buzzed, and he checked the caller. “Oh, this is Jack Gillenhall. I’d better take it.” He pushed the accept button and said, “Yes, Jack. What did you find out? What?” Then he listened for at least a minute and a half by Grace’s estimation. “Right. I’ll be out there in a few minutes. Thanks.”
“What’s up?” Grace asked.
“Someone’s killed Conrad Folger, and it’s definitely a murder.”
“What?” Grace jumped up and leaned across his desk. “What about Emily? Is she all right? The children?”
“I don’t know. I only know,” he said, pausing and looking at Grace, “Jack said someone slit his throat. I’m on my way. Got to go.” He grabbed several items off his desk, pulled his coat off a hanger, and kissed Grace as he ran out the door. She just had enough time to shout, “Call me when you find out about Emily and the kids.”
It seemed so quiet after he left. Grace walked over to her office to pick up her recorder and her notes for Sam Oliver. She also needed to take her laptop so she could use it at home. She was just about to lock her office door when her own phone began playing Bon Jovi’s “Wanted: Dead or Alive.”
“TJ. What’s going on?”
“I’m out at Conrad and Emily Folger’s and just took a break for a moment. Folger is dead, murdered.”
“Oh, TJ. Jeff just got the message too. Emily? Is she all right? And the kids?”
“Kids are fine and at a friend’s house. They weren’t here last night. Emily is off to the ER because she’s in shock. She isn’t hurt, but we’ll have to wait to talk to her. Still trying to put the pieces together. I know you had her in school—she was at the high school when I was.”
“TJ, this is awful.” Grace paused a moment, thinking about what else to say. “What can I do?”
TJ paused. “Nothing for now. But I think you should get a grip on the fact that she’s the prime suspect in her husband’s death.”
“What? You can’t mean it. Emily Folger?”
“Yes. Only one here. Doors locked. Lots of blood on her. Looks bad for her.”
Grace could feel tears rolling down her face. Emily Folger. “You have to find the real killer, TJ.”
Again, there was a long pause at the other end of the phone. Then, a deep sigh. “Why did I know those would be the next words out of your mouth? The Grace Kimball ‘My Student Could Never Have Done That!’ reaction. Grace, you knew her a long time ago. Lots has happened in between.”
“You do what you have to do, TJ. Remember, you are the person who looks for all suspects. And—”
“Don’t even start on the rest of that sentence, Grace. Remember what happened the last time you went off half-cocked
and tried to find a killer. That’s not happening again.”
Grace sat down in her office chair. “Then promise me, TJ, you’ll find the real killer.” She ended the call and sat back in her chair, thinking about Emily Folger. Every fiber of her being knew her Emily could never have killed another human being. Should she go to the hospital? No, the police probably wouldn’t let her in to see Emily at this point. So, Plan B. Pressing her lips together, she stood up, gathered her purse, laptop, and recorder, and headed out the door, determined to deal with the Lock-woods and then start on the Folgers. She left the office, headed for her car, and hummed “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fortified with two cups of strong coffee, Grace traipsed down the wide sidewalk to the main doors of Spencer Hall at Endurance College. It was ten twenty-five, and the campus seemed devoid of students on the various paths leading to the student union or the dorms, but she figured, on a Saturday morning, they were probably huddled under thick blankets, still in bed. The sidewalks had been plowed and salted, and she didn’t have any problem walking, but it was sure cold, and she watched her breath disappear into the wintry, dry air.
Climbing the stone steps carefully, she walked into Spencer Hall, looked around at the portraits of the college presidents on the walls, and then turned down the hallway, her footsteps echoing on the marble floors. Bulletin boards, filled with event flyers, covered every inch of space in the corner near the stairs, and she turned and walked up to the second floor. The ancient marble steps had half-moons worn into the middle of each step, and she walked carefully. She watched for Sam Oliver’s name on an office door and found it, the second one on the left. Opening the door, she walked past a teakettle on a hot plate, plants hanging from wall hooks, and a table with graded papers left for students to retrieve. She meandered into the next room and saw her old friend, Sam, working away on a thick pile of papers. He hadn’t seen her yet, and she took a moment to study him. He was wearing a heavy, navy sweater over a black turtleneck shirt, and a small, gold earring dangled from one ear. He was a fixture at Endurance College, having come to town a few years before Grace, so he could be approaching sixty. He and his wife, Glenna, were friends of Grace’s and Roger’s back in the long ago.
She cleared her throat. Sam looked up, and a pleasant smile came over his face.
“Grace! I lost track of the time.” He checked the clock behind him. “I knew you said you’d be here about now, but I needed to grade Western Civ papers. You’re a welcome distraction.”
He stood up and enveloped her in a huge bear hug. “Glad you’re here. Can I take your coat?”
Grace shook her head. “I think I’ll keep it on. Don’t they pay the heating bills at the college?”
He laughed. “Oh, yes. However, the powers-that-be believe the ivory tower ambience is one of austerity. It keeps us academics humble and grateful for our little pleasures in life.” He glanced around his office, indicated she should move back a few steps, and cleared off the clutter and books on a chair near his desk. “There. Now you have a place to sit. May I bring you some coffee, such as it is?”
“Sure,” said Grace, and she opened her notebook and fished for a pen and her recorder in her purse.
He called to her from the outer office. “It’s kind of like police stations.”
“What is?”
“Coffee’s pretty bad. No one really worries too much about it because everyone has too much to do,” Sam said. He handed her a steaming cup, and then he patted his silver hair, which was pulled back into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck and tied with a thin, leather strip. Sitting down, he looked around the room and said, “You know, this hall was named for Judge Lockwood’s first wife, Jane Spencer. The judge gave a large endowment to the college, and they named the building for her way back in the late 1800s.”
“Guess I hadn’t connected the name.” Grace gingerly sipped her coffee and winced. It was bitter and nasty.
“When you said on the phone you were interested in the Lockwood family, I was delighted. I’ve researched them extensively as part of the history of the town. But I always come to a dead end on the mysterious deaths in their story.”
“Mysterious deaths?”
“Yes. It’s hard to tell, for instance, what killed the judge so young. He was only forty-four.”
“I noticed that when I read his obituary. You know Jeff Maitlin bought the Lockwood house, and he wants me to research the family and the house for the newspaper.”
“So that’s who bought it. I was so glad to hear someone did buy it. Those old buildings deteriorate so quickly, and they cost prodigious amounts of cash to keep up. It’s like driving a Brinks truck off a cliff into a dark hole.”
Grace watched Sam rise and walk over to a wall filled with books of various sizes and shapes. The bookcases went from the floor to the high, vaulted ceiling, and books were crammed into every square inch. She wondered how he knew where anything was. “I can sure help you with the Lockwoods. Just a minute.” He moved a small ladder over to the far end of the bookshelves and maneuvered it around piles of books sitting on the floor. Climbing up slowly and carefully, the academic peered at several book spines and then, with some effort, pulled a dark-covered book from the shelf. He looked down at Grace and the book-strewn floor. “Don’t know how I will clear out this office when I retire. Too many books. But maybe I won’t retire,” he said, and chuckled. He climbed down and handed the book to Grace. “Here you go. This is a book I wrote in 1985 about the history of the town and the Lockwoods. That family is an intrinsic part of the town’s story.”
“Do you mind, Sam, if I record our conversation?”
“Not at all.”
Grace looked at the book cover. “This is wonderful, Sam. It should help me immensely.”
“Thought the book might help. You can keep it till you’re done with your research.”
She thumbed through the pages. “Oh. Photos of the family. Here’s one of Olivia, his second wife. My, she was very beautiful, wasn’t she?” Grace stared at the gray-toned photo of a young woman in a high-collared, white dress, a necklace with a heart suspended from her neck. Her dark hair was long and pulled back with a ribbon, and her eyes stared at the camera with a curious expression. “And terribly young.”
“That she was. It’s another story with many question marks. After the judge’s death, her trail grows cold. Not sure what happened to her. Like I said, lots of questions about the endings of both those people. And, for that matter, even more questions about the death of his first wife.”
“Tell me about your research; the Lockwoods must be fascinating for you to spend so much time on them.”
“If you get me started, I won’t stop, you know,” the professor said.
“It’s fine. I can see the clock behind you, and I have to do another errand around twelve o’clock. I’m not intimidated by your vast store of knowledge. I’ll tell you when to stop.” She grinned and took another sip of the dreadful coffee.
“Well, then. Give a man an audience and he’ll talk. Where should I start?” He took a deep breath and considered his first words carefully. “The judge’s father, Benjamin Nathaniel Lockwood—good old New England name—came here from Delaware in 1840. Started a dry-goods store, and was quite the master of marketing and merchandizing. The store flourished, and he enlarged it several times—down on the public square on the southeast corner. Eventually it took up the whole block. Then he married Sophia Endicott in 1846. She was quite the lovely girl—only sixteen when they married. But, as luck would have it, they had two stillborn daughters.”
“Was Sophia from the area?”
“Actually, her family had been friends with his family back in Delaware, and they came out to visit. Guess she stayed,” he said, “much to her misfortune. The Lockwood family was a major pillar of the Methodist Church, and I suppose her inability to carry a child disturbed him and disappointed him. He must have thought God was punishing him—or her. I do
n’t think Sophia had an easy time of it.”
Grace paused in her note-taking and looked up. “You mean he was unfaithful?”
“Well, I found examples of speculation that he was both unfaithful and also a little bad-tempered. Some of the medical records of the family doctor were saved, and I found them years ago in the college archives. Evidently, Sophia went to him for some bruises, sprains—and once, a broken wrist. But in 1848, as they said back then, ‘she was delivered of a son,’ Charles Benjamin, and he was the fair-haired boy. The father had purchased railroad stock by that time, and he also had his hand in a brickyard. The son, Charles, grew up, went to college, became a lawyer by 1871, and returned to town, where he proceeded to sow his wild oats with alcohol and whorehouses. His father often intervened, especially when the boy didn’t treat the women kindly.”
“You mean he hurt them?”
“So the story goes. Not sure what the old man finally did to bring him in line—maybe threatened to disinherit him. Back then, you know, abuse was considered a family issue, but if people found out about abuse, it was still frowned upon. Women didn’t have much protection and were at the mercy of their spouses. Law enforcement—such as it was—figured a man’s home was his castle. If he wanted to get drunk and beat his wife, well, so be it. Some people believe that’s why the women eventually took hatchets to saloons and barrels of alcohol. Anyway, Charles got involved in local politics, and, by 1884, his father had died and left a huge estate with orders for Charles to take care of his mother.”
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