Shadows on the Ivy

by Lea Wait

  She listened again. Her feet felt like weights. Frozen weights. Did she dare go down the stairs where she might be seen? She needed to know who it was.

  Footsteps crackled in the dry leaves below her as she stood next to the window in the hallway. Maggie lifted the lid of the pine captain’s chest she kept in the hall for storage of extra blankets and towels and…flashlights. The large torch she used during electrical outages was right where it should be. Next to it was the box cutter she used to remove prints from books with broken bindings. She must have left it here after taking that volume of Volland nursery rhymes apart in her room a couple of weeks ago. She slipped the box cutter into the pocket of her bathrobe and picked up the flashlight.

  Pointing the light toward the floor, she clicked the button to turn it on. Nothing. Damn. Could she have forgotten to replace the batteries? Her heart sounded louder with every beat. She shook the torch and pushed the button again. It lit. She started to raise the hall window. Would the light shine down far enough so she could see who was there? She listened. She could still hear footsteps in the leaves. Whoever was there hadn’t been discouraged by the lights on the second floor.

  She hesitated. What if he—or she—had a gun?

  She couldn’t think about that. Gently she opened the window. Thank goodness she’d oiled the inside of that frame last summer. It didn’t stick. But she’d have to raise the screen, too, to be able to see out. The screen squeaked no matter how carefully she moved it.

  She pushed it up, holding her breath as though that would silence it. It didn’t. But there was no sound from below. Maggie leaned out, directing the torch so it would point into her yard. The beam only covered a small area. She couldn’t see anyone. Slowly she turned it so she could see more of the yard.

  As she looked the sound of a siren and the flash of a revolving light broke the stillness. Police!

  The cruiser pulled up and parked in front of her house. Maggie began to breathe again. She rotated the beam of the large flashlight around the yard once more. All was quiet.

  She backed her upper body in through the window, bumping her head on the frame. Hard. The flashlight slipped from her hands and fell into the yard.

  “Hey, lady! You the one who called 911?”

  Maggie looked down. A uniformed officer was standing there, rubbing his head.

  “There was someone here. He tried all of the windows. I could hear them shaking.”

  As she spoke, a nearby car started up and accelerated. The patrolman ran toward the noise as Maggie went downstairs. She met him on the small porch in front of her house.

  “Did you see the car?”

  “It drove off too fast. Are you sure no one got into your house?”

  Maggie felt like a quivering, helpless female, but under the circumstances she didn’t care. “I don’t think so. But I don’t know for sure.” She realized she was standing in bare feet, wearing her blue flannel nightgown and old robe, shaking with cold and fear. But she did have a box cutter in her pocket.

  “I’d like to check the house to make sure,” said the patrolman, and Maggie nodded, filled with relief. “My partner can check your yard.”

  “Yes, please,” she said quietly. “Can I make you some tea or coffee?”

  “No thanks, ma’am. You just sit right here by the door, and if you hear or see anything unusual, you scream. Promise?”

  Maggie nodded. Right now she didn’t care if she was being treated like a ten-year-old. The relief of having someone else in charge for a few moments was too much. She started to cry.

  Sniveling idiot, she told herself with embarrassment. She ignored the patrolman’s instructions and went into the kitchen, got some tissues, and blew her nose. Everything was as she’d left it. Winslow meowed at her from the top of the kitchen table. She moved him to the floor. “Big help you were,” she scolded. She sat down and waited for her pulse to return to normal.

  After a few minutes the policeman returned, and his partner handed Maggie the torch. “Wicked weapon you’ve got here,” he said, grinning, and rubbing the back of his head. “Unfortunately it got one of the good guys.”

  “Sorry.” Maggie could see the torch had major problems; the plastic lens had split and the side was dented. She hoped the patrolman’s scalp was in better shape.

  “There was someone here, ma’am; the ground next to the house is just damp enough to show some footprints outside the windows in the back, and by the ramp. But whoever it was has left. Make sure you lock up tight. We’ll take a drive through every hour or so to check, but I don’t think you’ll have any more company tonight.”

  Maggie felt numb. “There’s nothing else you can do?”

  “Probably it was someone trying to pick up computers or jewelry to sell for drug money. I’m surprised he didn’t disappear when you turned on the upstairs lights. That’s what they usually do.” He looked at Maggie. “You’ll be fine. We’ll file a report. If you should hear anything, call 911 right away, all right?”

  Maggie nodded.

  The police left. She checked all of the doors and windows again, this time locking the couple of windows she’d left open before. She locked the ones on the second floor, too, just in case.

  By the time she got back into bed it was almost three. She lay stiffly under the comforter, no longer lulled by the night.

  The world had become too frightening, too close.

  Her office…and now her home. Her sense of security was gone. Who would do this to her?

  Who would poison Sarah and Tiffany?

  The world of Somerset, New Jersey, where she had always felt comfortable and at home, no longer felt safe.

  She finally fell asleep, but only into dreams of falling and footsteps and fear.

  Chapter 34

  Tell Tale Tit, Your tongue shall be slit; And all the dogs in the town Shall have a little bit. Colored engraving of old nursery rhyme, with verse, from Mother Goose, 1881, London, illustrated by Kate Greenaway (1846–1901). Greenaway’s quaintly dressed children were extremely popular during the 1880s and 1890s, and reproductions of her work are being printed today. 4 x 6.5 inches. Price: $60.

  Maggie’s night was too restless and too short. At seven she forced herself to get out of bed, poured a soda, and logged on to her computer.

  Good morning, Dear Lady. Weather in Ohio is improving, and so, I’m hoping, is yours. Found some small treasures in a shop yesterday—an early brass trammel in perfect condition, and a wonderfully quirky Victorian, homemade wire flyswatter. No prints, though, so you didn’t miss any bargains. But I miss your smile. As I remember, Gussie and Jim are arriving tonight, so give them my best. Hope you’re taking some time for long baths and relaxing music, but suspect you’re not. If you’re up to a plane ride or a long drive, think about spending Thanksgiving in Buffalo…. I should get there a week in advance, so the house might even be vacuumed. And you once said you’d never seen Niagara Falls. So—consider the possibilities. And me.

  Will

  Maggie sighed and read over the message. She had planned to clean her own house and reorganize portfolios during Thanksgiving break. But after the events of the last few days, spending her first Thanksgiving without Michael alone didn’t sound like fun. Being alone at all didn’t sound like fun. Although it was a lot easier when the sun was shining.

  If only she could tell Will what was happening…but there was too much, and it was too complicated. Soon, Maggie thought. Soon it will be a “you’ll never guess what happened” story, and I’ll be able to share it. Long-distance relationships had their challenges.

  And even when Michael had been there, Maggie had managed most of life on her own.

  Dear Will,

  And a wonderful Wednesday to you! Your finds of yesterday sound great—would love to see the folk-art flyswatter! When do you think we’ll get technologically hip and have digital cameras? Or those little telephones that send pictures? For now, e-mail is about as challenging as I want technology to be. I’ll think seriou
sly about Thanksgiving. Right now I’m in the middle of a busy week, and not ready to focus on something three weeks away. But I will be. Soon. I promise. Sending you a cyber-hug…

  Maggie

  She deleted the four junk e-mails that had arrived overnight and skimmed a notice from an international adoption agency headquartered in Pennsylvania that was hosting an orientation meeting on Saturday. She would have liked to attend. But the Morristown Antique Show would keep her occupied this weekend. She wrote back to the agency asking when the next Saturday orientation meeting would be. Not Thanksgiving weekend, she hoped, turning the regard ring on her finger. It would be hard to choose between Will and the adoption meeting; between Will and children; and this morning she didn’t feel up to making difficult decisions.

  Before today gets any more complicated, Maggie told herself, you are going to school and getting that briefcase. She put on a long, red-plaid flannel skirt and a red turtleneck and picked up the large navy canvas tote bag she sometimes used for shopping. It would be big enough to cover the briefcase from prying eyes.

  As she’d hoped, she was the first this morning to get to the American Studies office area. She unlocked her office and tried not to look at the mess left after the trashing and then the fingerprinting. Her hand shook a little as she isolated the correct key on her key ring and unlocked the desk drawer. Tiffany’s briefcase was right where she’d left it. She hastily slipped it in the canvas bag, relocked the desk and office, and walked back to her van, trying not to look behind every tree to see if anyone was watching. But if she didn’t count the one student who had arrived early and was sipping his coffee on the steps of the administration building, no one was nearby.

  At home, Maggie pulled her bag of tools from the van and took the briefcase inside. It had a combination lock. Maggie looked at the other side of the case. She hated to ruin the soft leather. But there was no other way. She found her narrowest screwdriver, a small brass hammer, and two clamps she used to fasten Peg-Boards to the back of tables at antique shows. She clamped the briefcase to the wide, heavy table she used for matting to hold it steady as she carefully inserted the screwdriver between the top and bottom of the hinges. It wasn’t easy. It took more than a few minutes. And the briefcase would never be the same again. But Maggie was finally able to pry it open far enough to start sliding papers out.

  A small address book. Maggie was tempted to stop there, but she wanted to see everything that was in the case. Were there photographs? She felt her pulse racing as she pulled out the next item. An appointment calendar. No appointments were listed for the night Tiffany was killed. But the initials O.W. did fill at least one night a week for the past month.

  So Tiffany had been seeing Oliver Whitcomb!

  Several pages of notes from a mathematics class.

  A picture of Tyler with a clown at what looked like an amusement park. Maggie hesitated. Did she really want to see what Tyler’s mother had in this case? The police should be doing this. Probably everything she was looking at should be fingerprinted. But, then, everything here was Tiffany’s. It shouldn’t have any prints other than hers.

  And now Maggie’s.

  A paper from an English class. An overdue credit card bill. A tiny, free sample lipstick from a department store cosmetics counter.

  A large brown paper envelope.

  As soon as Maggie pulled it out, she knew. These were the pictures someone was so anxious to get. These were the pictures someone had killed Tiffany for. The pictures someone had trashed Maggie’s office and tried to break into her home to find.

  She slid the photos out. There were only half a dozen, but they were enough. Enough to know that Oliver Whitcomb was going to be in a lot of trouble. And that he had a motive for murder.

  Chapter 35

  Major General Benedict Arnold. Steel engraving by H. R. Hall, printed by W. Pate and published by G. P. Putnam & Co., 1852. With steel-engraved reproduction of Arnold’s signature. Benedict Arnold (1741–1801) was a general in the U.S. Army during the American Revolution. In 1780 he was given command of West Point; his correspondence with the British revealed his plan to betray West Point for a British commission and money. The plot was discovered, but Arnold escaped and went into exile in England and Canada. 6.5 x 10 inches. Price: $45.

  It had been two days since she had visited Aura, Maggie thought guiltily as she headed toward campus and the Wee Care Center. Here she was thinking about adopting a child, and Aura was a little girl who needed her now and she hadn’t even found time to visit her every day.

  The day-care worker held Aura’s hand as she led her toward Maggie. Aura was much quieter than she’d been Monday. Now she’d had the double shock of her mother being gone and of finding Tiffany’s body. Maggie wondered how much Aura understood, and how much she’d remember. Maggie needed to read a lot more books on child psychology before becoming a parent.

  “Good morning, Aura,” said Maggie. “I took the picture you drew to your mommy.”

  Aura brightened immediately. “Did Mommy like it?”

  Maggie thought of Sarah, lying in the hospital bed, unconscious. “I’m sure she did, Aura. But she’s still sleeping a lot. I put the picture up where she would see it when she wakes up, though.”

  “Tiffany is sick, too,” Aura said. “The policemen took her away. And then Tyler went away.”

  Did Aura think someone was going to take her away? The events at Whitcomb House in the past few days had to be incomprehensible to a four-year-old.

  “Tyler went to stay with his grandma and grandpa,” said Maggie.

  “Will I go to stay with a grandma and grandpa?” asked Aura.

  Aura had never met anyone she could call grandma or grandpa. But Dorothy was her grandmother. This morning Maggie didn’t want to think about what Oliver was.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Aura. At least not now. You’re going to stay where you live, and Kayla is going to take care of you, and Heather, and Maria, and Kendall are going to be there.”

  “That’s what Kayla said, too. She said Mommy would be home soon.”

  “I hope she will be, Aura.”

  “I’ll make her another picture today,” said Aura. “Will you come and see me tonight and get the picture and take it to Mommy?”

  Maggie nodded. “I’ll do that.”

  “I’ll make a special picture for her.” Aura turned to go back into her classroom, then turned back. “Would you like me to make a picture for you, too?”

  “I’d like that very much, Aura.” Maggie’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Bye-bye.” Aura disappeared behind the classroom door.

  Maggie stood silently for a moment. Sarah had to get better. She had to.

  For the second time that morning Maggie headed for her office. This time she was carrying photographs, safely tucked in a brown portfolio like those she used for prints, and notes for her nine-o’clock class. Thank goodness she’d kept the outline for today’s lecture at home; she wouldn’t have to hunt for it in the mess that was her office.

  Claudia raised her head from the pages of a magazine and frowned as Maggie passed her desk. “I thought something must have happened to you, too. Your class is in five minutes.” She handed Maggie a pile of pink message slips and a chocolate Kiss.

  “I know,” said Maggie.

  “If you could be a flower, what would you be?”

  “What?” Maggie looked at Claudia.

  “It says in this article that most men want to be roses. With thorns. But women want to be all sorts of flowers. I can’t make up my mind whether I’d rather be a daffodil or a Johnny-jump-up. What would you like to be?”

  “This morning—poison ivy! Maybe then everyone would leave me alone!” Maggie stuffed the messages into her pocketbook.

  Claudia shook her head and handed Maggie three more chocolate Kisses. “The janitor wanted to clean your office last night, after the police were finished, but I was sure you’d want to go through all those papers yourself. I did co
nvince him to leave you some cleaning supplies, though.” She moved aside and pointed under her desk to a pail filled with cloths, paper towels, and glass cleaner.

  “Thank you, Claudia. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I didn’t even think of things like that, and I’ll need them. But not until after this class. I just stopped to get my messages.”

  Maggie held tightly to the portfolio as she walked through the halls. She didn’t dare leave it in her office or her van.

  Her van. If someone thought she had the photographs, would they search her van? The van that was full of prints! Maggie blanched, but kept walking. The faculty parking area was in a well-traveled area near the library, and it was morning. Too many people would be around for anyone to try to break into it now. And she had locked all the doors and windows.

  Her “Myths in American Culture” class was waiting. Maggie put the portfolio down on the desk she was using and began. It was 9 A.M. Wednesday. Life, and classes, had to continue.

  “This morning we’re going to talk about the myth of the self-made man. It’s a myth closely related to the myth of America as Eden; as a place to begin. It grew out of the reality that, if there was not land for everyone here, then at least there was land for more people than there had been in Europe. And whereas in European societies position, power, and money were all primarily hereditary, in America inheritances were not as important.

  “Of course, even some of those who sailed on the Mayflower had more money and position than others. But the illusion was that once you were on American soil, hard work could make up for any differences in birth.

  “This myth was encouraged by politicians, who advertised the successes of Andrew Jackson, whose wife taught him to read, and then of Abraham Lincoln, who may have been born in a log cabin. And if anyone doubted the myth, then Horatio Alger’s stories proved it.