by Lea Wait
“Today the name Horatio Alger is used to describe someone who has risen from the bottom of society to a position of wealth and power. The real Horatio Alger was a writer and minister. During the Civil War he was the chaplain of the Newsboys’ Lodging House in New York City, a refuge for homeless boys who lived in Five Points and other slums in lower Manhattan. Many of these boys, some orphaned by the Civil War, some deserted by their families, tried to make their living selling newspapers. Alger wanted them to believe they had a future. That their destinies depended on their own actions, not on their current situations.
“Beginning in 1867, with the publication of Ragged Dick, Alger wrote action-filled books about boys who were on the lowest rungs of society with titles like Tony the Tramp and Phil the Fiddler and Only an Irish Boy. All his heroes are boys who are poor but honest and hardworking; they struggle against poverty and against temptation. And, inevitably, their efforts are recognized by older men who reward them by offering them economic and social opportunities. All of Alger’s young heroes achieve wealth and position and power. His one hundred and thirty books were bestsellers from 1867 until the early twentieth century, and one or two are still in print today. Over the years, more than twenty million copies of Horatio Alger’s books have been printed.
“A generation after he wrote Ragged Dick, Alger’s books were often used by the Social Darwinists of the Gilded Age—those who believed that the wealthiest Americans were examples of the ‘survival of the fittest’ doctrine—to justify that wealth. After all, Americans were self-made men, and only the most honest and hardworking could have made it to the top.
“At least, that was true in Horatio Alger’s books.”
Maggie paused. “Today we smile at some of those beliefs. We know, for example, that honesty is not always rewarded and dishonesty sometimes is. The robber barons of the Gilded Age proved that, and certainly we could all think of many more recent examples. And yet many of you or your parents or grandparents came to the United States with the same beliefs Horatio Alger had. That’s why you’re sitting here, in this classroom. You believe that if you work hard and prove yourselves, then you, too, can have a better job, and a bigger house, and, ultimately, a happier life. Am I right?” Maggie saw some smiles and nods around the classroom.
Certainly young mothers like Sarah Anderson and Tiffany Douglass would have fallen within Horatio Alger’s definition of “starting from the bottom.” Although, since they were single mothers, Alger would no doubt have dismissed any possibilities of success for them. Not only were they women (none of his books were about girls) but they were “immoral.”
“Let’s take the rest of this class time to discuss the idea of the self-made man—or woman,” Maggie continued. “Is it a myth? Or can a man or woman who starts with nothing, but who works hard, still find that America is a land of opportunity?”
Chapter 36
Lithograph of four folk-toy weapons: a slingshot, a pistol, a rifle, and a crossbow. From Folk-Toys: Les Jouets Populaires, a book of designs of Czechoslovakian folk toys by Emanuel Hercik, printed in Prague, 1941. 8.5 x 11.5 inches. Price: $50.
Maggie’s office didn’t look any better than it had earlier.
She put down the papers she was carrying, dusted most of the fingerprint powder off her chair, and retrieved the plastic pail of cleaning aids from Claudia. She’d start by the door and work her way around the office. “Fall cleaning,” she muttered to herself as she wiped the top shelf of the bookcase nearest to the door and began dusting and replacing books. There was one good side to all of this: by the time she’d finished, her office would no doubt be cleaner than it had been before the damage. She hadn’t dusted these bookcases thoroughly for over a year.
After most of the books were off the floor and back in the first bookcase (and several volumes were rediscovered and piled in the corner to take home to read), she scrubbed spilled soda off the desk and floor, and out of the top drawer in her desk. The loose papers would take hours more to organize and file. She piled all of them, some stained with Pepsi and some not, on the guest chair where Tiffany had sat less than forty-eight hours before. It seemed so long ago. She hesitated, then plunged back into the cleaning. It had to be done. Her sanity, if not her job, depended on her putting at least part of her life back in order.
She put the Currier & Ives Maggie in a portfolio to take home so she could replace the glass and try to repair the frame.
The telephone didn’t ring, and no one bothered her. It was heavenly.
Over an hour later, when Maggie had finished about half the cleaning, Paul stuck his head in. “Hey! I told you I’d help with this! You started without me.” He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “So—what can I do?”
“You can clean the shelves in the bookcase on that side of the room,” Maggie said. “Claudia scrounged some Windex and paper towels. If you find any stray papers, put them on the chair over there. I’ll go through them later.”
“Aye, aye, captain!” Paul said as he tore some paper towels off the roll and headed for the designated bookcase.
They worked in silence for a few minutes. Paul spoke first. “I hope you had a peaceful evening last night. After everything that happened yesterday, you deserved one.”
Could he already know what had happened last night? Or, if he didn’t, then should she tell him? “I went out for a quiet dinner, but then later had a little excitement. A prowler tried to break into my house.”
“No!” Paul stopped dusting and looked genuinely concerned. “After what happened to your office yesterday? That can’t be chance.”
“The timing doesn’t sound coincidental, does it?”
“Did you call the police?”
“Whoever it was drove away before they could catch him—or her.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“Clean up my office, teach my class this afternoon, and keep my eyes and ears open. I don’t want to fall into the same category as Sarah or Tiffany.”
Paul was silent. “This is tough for me. I’m new here, and I want to help. But…”
“But you don’t want to get your friend Oliver in trouble, right?” Maggie walked around the desk and stood next to Paul so their conversation wouldn’t be overheard. “Paul, if Oliver is poisoning students and burglarizing my office and home, then he’s not worth protecting.”
“Professor Summer? And Mr. Turk.” Detective Newton was in the door of Maggie’s small office, Detective Luciani behind her. “I’m glad you’re here. We need to speak with both of you.”
“Yes?” Maggie moved over, shifted some papers, and sat down on her chair. The cola she hadn’t yet cleaned off stuck to her skirt. Paul stood near the bookcase, still holding paper towels. Had the detectives figured out she had the photographs? Should she tell them?
“Professor Summer, your office was clearly the object of someone’s search yesterday, and we just found out you called 911 last night reporting that someone attempted to enter your home.”
“Yes.”
“We’re trying to make sense of the poisoning of Sarah Anderson, and then Tiffany Douglass, but we keep coming up with dead ends.” Detective Newton, as usual, was taking the lead questioning Maggie. Perhaps because she was a woman. Maybe Luciani questioned men. “Professor Summer, you knew both of the victims. And Mr. Turk, you’re a friend of the Whitcombs. Somehow the two young women and the Whitcombs seem to be linked in this investigation. We need to talk with both of you again.” She looked at Paul. “But separately. Mr. Turk, would you mind waiting for us in your office?”
Luciani closed the door after Paul. It was a bit too cozy with Maggie and the two detectives there amid the mess, but it was more private.
“Professor Summer, what do you have that someone is looking for?” Detective Newton looked directly at her with an intensity Maggie had not seen before.
Maggie hesitated only briefly. The police needed to know. Someone needed to find whoever had poisoned Sarah and Tiffany. �
�Yesterday I didn’t know for sure. But I do now. Tiffany visited me Monday afternoon, to talk about Sarah, as I told you earlier. I didn’t consider it anything out of the ordinary.”
“Did she know anything that might pinpoint who had poisoned Sarah?” asked Detective Luciani.
“No. Quite the opposite. She had no idea. We talked for a while, and then she left, and I did, too. I didn’t notice until yesterday that she’d left her briefcase here.”
“In your office?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it? Did whoever disturbed your office take it?”
“No. When I found the briefcase, I locked it in the desk drawer with my grade books. I came in early this morning, got it, and took it to my home.”
“You realize you should have turned it over to us,” said Detective Newton. “You knew that anything belonging to the deceased might be critical to our investigation.”
“But I didn’t know for sure, and…in any case, that’s what I did.”
“So the briefcase is now in your home.”
Maggie nodded. “But I opened it.” She didn’t feel ready to tell them she had broken into the briefcase. They would find that out soon enough. “I have the contents here.” Maggie handed the portfolio to Detective Luciani, who had come around to her side of the desk. Tiffany’s address book and appointment book were there. So were the photographs.
Luciani handed the rest of the papers to Newton, and they spread the photos out on a relatively clear area of Maggie’s desk.
One of the pictures showed Oliver Whitcomb, naked, holding a whip. Others showed Oliver and Tiffany, both nude, or close to it. In two of them Tiffany was tied to a bed with what looked like a red rope. In one she was handcuffed. The pictures showed two apparently consenting adults having bondage sex.
“Not pretty stuff,” said Luciani.
“That explains the bruises Kayla said she saw on Tiffany,” said Newton.
“And it would explain, graphically, why Tiffany might have been able to blackmail Oliver Whitcomb,” said Luciani, gathering up the photos. He put them back in the portfolio. “Professor Summer, you might be interested to know that the toxicology tests came back on Tiffany Douglass. She was poisoned by potassium permanganate, most likely mixed with red wine. Not the same poison Sarah Anderson ingested.”
“Potassium permanganate?” Maggie went white with shock. “Are you sure?”
Chapter 37
Hand-colored steel engraving of a whale beached on a glacier; two clipper ships are in the background, and two dories are on their way toward the stranded mammal. Printed by Frillarton and Company, London and Edinburgh, in 1853 for Oliver Goldsmith’s History of the Earth and Animated Nature. As with many engravings of the period, the central figure, the whale, is hand-colored; the rest of the engraving is left in black and white. 5.5 x 9 inches. Price: $60.
Maggie spoke with the detectives for a few more minutes, then Luciani and Newton went next door, to Paul’s office.
Maggie sat quietly, pulling her thoughts together. She looked around her office. She still didn’t know who’d trashed it, but now she thought she knew who’d killed Tiffany. Who had to have killed Tiffany. And if that person had killed Tiffany, then perhaps that person was also responsible for Sarah’s poisoning. Responsible for searching Maggie’s office, and for trying to break into her home last night. She had the major pieces. All she had to do now was make them fit. And get some proof. Then she could share her theory.
Detective Newton came to her door. “Professor Summer? Would you join us for a few minutes in Mr. Turk’s office?”
She nodded and followed the detective. As she got there, Paul, his face ashen, was being read his rights.
“You think I killed Tiffany? Or poisoned Sarah?” His voice was barely audible.
“You helped set up the bar where Sarah was poisoned, your fingerprints were all over Professor Summer’s office, and you haven’t told us everything you know.”
Detective Luciani then spread the photographs of Tiffany and Oliver out on Paul’s desk. Luciani leaned over the photos, shouting at Paul, “For example—do you know anything about this?”
Paul’s shoulders sagged. “All right! Yes. I knew Oliver Whitcomb had…different sexual tastes. But I didn’t have anything to do with Tiffany’s death! Oliver used to tell me about his…friends…when we were in New York. And I knew he was seeing Tiffany Douglass. I didn’t know for sure he and Tiffany were into that kind of stuff together. And I didn’t know until yesterday that there were pictures. He called after he heard about her death. He said it would be very embarrassing if anyone found them, and he’d do anything to get those pictures and negatives and ensure they were destroyed.”
“Embarrassing?” said Luciani.
“I assumed to him. And to his wife. Maybe even to the school.”
“And…?” said Detective Newton.
“I told him I’d seen Tiffany in Maggie’s office Monday afternoon. He asked me if she’d had the briefcase he’d given her. I said I thought so. He asked me to see if she’d left it there.”
“You were the one?” Maggie said, her voice rising. “You totally dumped my office looking for dirty pictures of Tiffany and Oliver?” Paul had lied to her and had pulled part of her life apart.
Paul nodded. “Oliver said to make it look as though a student had done it. I tried not to ruin any papers that looked critical. And, after all, I couldn’t find the briefcase. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. I owe so much to Oliver.”
“Did you owe so much to Oliver that you killed Tiffany to get those pictures? And then panicked when she didn’t have them and trashed Professor Summer’s office?” asked Detective Luciani.
“No! I don’t know anything about Tiffany’s death! I searched Maggie’s office. That’s all!”
“You didn’t find the briefcase because Professor Summer had already locked it away,” said Detective Luciani.
“I didn’t know. I told Oliver Tiffany must not have left her briefcase there after all.”
“And you were the one who came to my house in the middle of the night and almost scared me to death?” Maggie was getting angrier by the minute.
“That wasn’t me! I swear it! I was at home last night. By myself. Feeling guilty about messing up your office.” Paul’s head dropped. “Oliver did me a big favor in recommending me for this job. He knew I didn’t have any teaching experience. It wasn’t just my choice to change careers. I was about to be laid off. Oliver came to my rescue.”
“Did Oliver Whitcomb poison Tiffany Douglass?” Detective Newton asked.
“No! I can’t believe he would do that,” said Paul. “He’s not like that. He’s got some kinky tastes in sex, but I can’t believe he’d intentionally hurt anyone!”
Detectives Luciani and Newton looked at each other. Newton spoke. “Mr. Turk, we’d like you to come down to headquarters with us and make out a sworn statement repeating what you told us here.”
“I will. But I still don’t think Oliver is guilty of anything but adultery.”
Luciani took Paul’s arm, and they headed out of the building. Newton stayed a moment.
“Are you sure about what you want to do, Professor Summer?”
Maggie nodded. “I’m sure.”
“When will you be ready?”
“Five o’clock,” Maggie said. “Unless I call you before that—five o’clock.”
Did she really want to do this? She thought of Sarah, pale in that hospital bed, and Aura, missing her mother. Tyler, who was now living with his grandparents.
Now she understood more about Tiffany. But Sarah?
It would take some time for the detectives to get Paul’s statement. Maggie finished cleaning the bookcase he’d started on and straightened the papers still on top of her desk. She needed to keep her hands as busy as her mind.
Then she dialed Dorothy’s number. Dorothy was somehow at the center of it all. “Dorothy? Are you free for lunch? It would have to be in the coll
ege cafeteria. I have a class at three, but I’d like to talk with you.”
“I was just about to call you,” Dorothy said. “I have news! See you in fifteen minutes.”
Maggie pushed aside the feeling that perhaps she shouldn’t see Dorothy now; she should let the police deal with what was to happen next.
How much did Dorothy know? And how much of what Maggie knew did she want to share with Dorothy?
By the time Maggie got to the cafeteria, Dorothy had already gotten a salad from the salad bar and a glass of iced tea. Maggie took a small salad and then, as she walked through the line of students and teachers, realized she’d skipped breakfast. She added two slices of vegetarian pizza and a large Diet Pepsi with ice and lemon to her tray. Even in the worst of times, a woman had to eat. By the time Maggie sat down, Dorothy had finished about a third of her salad.
Now what? Should she just broach the untouchable? Hey, Dorothy, I understand your husband was having steamy bondage sex with one of the single parents you sponsored! Do you think he could have murdered her? Maggie put a paper napkin in her lap and debated whether to use her fingers for the pizza or be civilized and use a knife and fork. The mounds of vegetables convinced her. Knife and fork.
Dorothy spoke first. “I just got through talking with Max. I think we have a deal.”
“Yes?”
“He agreed he was a little overwrought when he talked with you yesterday. He said we were right. The residents of Whitcomb House can stay.”
“That’s a relief!”
“Yes and no. He did put one caveat in the agreement. But it won’t have any effect on the students who’re at Whitcomb House now. Just those in the future.”
“The future?”
“Oliver and I agreed to resign from the committee that selects candidates for the program. We’ll still sponsor Whitcomb House, of course, so we were disappointed, but I can understand, after the past week’s events, why Max would feel that way.”