In a minute, Monica had the call number and the information that the book was available on the second floor. She wrote the call number on a scrap of recycled paper and handed it to Olga. “I see you’ve noticed your daughter’s PC is gone. The police removed it. But have no fear, Mrs. Swenson, she never overused the Internet for personal searches or anything like that. Her reputation is secure.”
“Would it be all right if I took a look at the contents of her drawers? Perhaps there’s a little something I can take home to Veronica to cheer her.”
“I don’t see why not. The police have already taken what they want.”
When Olga Swenson looked shaken by this last remark, the librarian took the occasion to look pointedly at the clock and make her exit for the conference room. After a minute, Olga opened one of her daughter’s drawers, pulled it out thoroughly, and allowed it to drop to the floor.
Stepping around the mess, she sat down at Miss Phillips’s PC and moved the mouse. The screen saver photo of three cats seemed to melt away, revealing a screen cluttered with icons. One of them was labeled “Blister.” Apparently, the word was not a password. It was the list itself. Olga’s edginess turned to jubilation, until she moved the mouse to click on the icon. A box appeared on the screen demanding a password.
Congratulating herself on her powers of observation, she typed in the letters M, E, O, and W. But the blasted machine rejected the password. Suppressing a moan, she stood up to survey the room. Would there be a password list on hand somewhere?
Just then, Monica Phillips opened the door.
“You see, I am a butterfingers, too, in my current state of mind. I managed to dump the whole drawer!” Olga said.
“Perhaps it was because I startled you,” the librarian said. “My colleagues always accuse me of creeping up on little cat feet,” she said, slowly arranging her lips into a large smile. The action recalled the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland. “I just came for the cake server. Ellen always kept it in her desk. Oh, I see it’s on the floor.”
“Allow me,” Olga said, picking up the implement and handing it to the librarian. Fortunately, the PC screen did not face the door. “I’ve been noticing your photos of three lovely cats. What are their names?”
“They are dears, aren’t they? The black-and-white “tuxedo” cat is Fred. The ginger cat is, of course, Ginger,” the librarian smiled proudly.
“Of course! For Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers! How clever!” Olga enthused. “And what about that handsome fellow? What’s his name?”
“Actually, that’s a female. I named her Judy, after Judy Garland.”
It seemed a strange name choice for a Siamese cat.
“It’s because of her voice,” Miss Phillips went on. “Siamese cats often vocalize, you know. They actually speak—in their own language of course—as they go about their business. My Judy, though, does more than that. She seems to sing. I’ve got to admit, she’s my favorite.”
When Monica left the room with the cake server, Olga reseated herself at the PC; input the letters J, U, D, and Y, and was given instant access to the records under “Blister.” Then she met another roadblock, apparently put there to make the records somewhat more secure. Another box appeared on the screen asking for a library card number. It was not possible to see records listed by name. Confidently, she typed in the numbers 1, 9, 9, and 2. Veronica’s birth year.
A document headed with the name “Johansson, Ellen Swenson,” and filled with dates and book titles spread itself out before her eyes. It was too much to take down—or to take in. Recalling Liz’s instructions, Olga turned on the printer and used the PC’s mouse to click on the print icon. After the page printed out, she followed more instructions from Liz and closed the document until the desktop of icons appeared. Slipping the printed page into her purse, she turned to tidy up the spilled drawer. Along with a few pens and some pads of Post-it Notes, she found a twelve-inch ruler, decorated by Veronica with a hand-painted crown and letters spelling out the statement, “MY MOM RULES!!!” Placing the ruler in her purse, she made a quick survey of the rest of her daughter’s drawers. They contained some drawings by Veronica; a mug sporting a portrait of Virginia Woolf; some feminine supplies; a much-used, folded-up tote bag imprinted with the words, “So many books, so little time”; and a packet of Reese’s Pieces.
The items were predictable, mundane. But the emotions they stirred were not.
Olga Swenson sat down heavily in her daughter’s chair and sobbed.
When, at last, she made her way out of the office, she could hear one voice sounding from the conference room. “Ellen’s mother is a wreck. She’s so jittery, the poor woman can’t open a drawer without pulling it out completely and spilling it all over the floor. She’s so bereft, she’s even going to read Gone With the Wind because it’s the last book she thinks Ellen read. Pretty sad title in the circumstances, don’t you think?”
“Really, Monica,” another voice said. Olga recognized it as Lucy Gray’s. “Surely it’s too soon to speak of Ellen as if we’ll never see her again. And as for Gone With the Wind, I hardly think that’s Ellen’s reading taste.”
“Well, I have that from Mrs. Swenson herself,” Monica said, rising to the conversational challenge. “And she told me Veronica is hopeless unless she’s with her grandmother’s dog, constantly eating chocolate. It’s a wonder Mrs. Swenson had the presence of mind to bring us these cookies!”
Fed up with the whole charade, despite its success, Olga Swenson left the library without going to the trouble of finding and signing out a copy of Gone With the Wind. Only when she reached her car did she remember she’d forgotten to turn off Miss Phillips’s printer. Unable to face hearing another word of gossip about her loved ones, she settled into her car. Turning her key in the ignition, she drove a short distance and parked her car on Fenwick Street. Then, using her key, she let herself into her daughter’s house.
Taking off her coat, she made her first uncharacteristic move. Instead of carefully hanging the garment on a hanger in the hall closet, she draped it over the back of an armchair. Then, she did something else that was highly unusual for her. After taking a teacup and saucer into the kitchen with the intention of making tea, she filled the cup halfway with bourbon instead.
Whispering the words “Forget me not,” she then settled into Ellen’s favorite chair in the living room and unfolded the list of books that revealed her daughter’s recent library borrowing habits. Studying the titles, she was glad her cup held bourbon.
Meanwhile, in the Banner’s newsroom, Liz began trying to locate Dr. Douglas Mayhew, former headmaster of the Wharton Alternative School. Using old clips provided by the Banner’s ever-helpful librarian, Conan Forbes, Liz found Mayhew’s name mentioned in connection with the opening of the school in 1960, in several stories about fundraising and about the philosophy of teaching troubled teens, and regarding the school’s closing in 1975. Apparently, after his stint as headmaster, Mayhew was not a newsmaker since his name appeared neither in more Boston-area newspaper clips nor in Internet citations.
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 to 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:
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