Free The Body in the Bonfire by Katherine Hall Page Page A

have called you all here together due to a most grave matter, and it saddens me that we are to start our annual Project Term with a dark cloud hanging over us. Someone in our community is a thief.” He paused and directed his gaze like a searchlight over a prison yard upon each andevery face. “Mrs. Harcourt is missing several items of great value—and I need hardly say that the sentimental value is the one that most concerns us here today. They belonged to her family and—”
    â€œMy grandmother! My grandmother’s pillbox.” Zoë leapt from the high-backed chair near the altar. A moment before, she’d been immobile, sitting slumped over, the picture of woe, wrapped in an enormous shearling, as if she’d just stepped in from the steppes. Now she was the picture of rage.
    â€œI want them back. You’re all to look for them. Some boy”—these last words were spoken in a death knell, her accent more pronounced, her voice almost a baritone—“some boy has taken them from my house to sell for a fraction of what they’re worth to buy who knows what. Invaded my house!” She raised her arm and shook her velvet-gloved fist. “But you are to find them. I had photographs, fortunately, and you will study the copies.” She was really, really scary. The expressions on the faces Faith could see were easy to read. This wasn’t like Mom and Dad pulling a nutty over a broken curfew or a D in French. This was Mount Saint Helens, Mount Vesuvius, Mount Zoë.
    Robert stepped up and put his arm around her, guiding her firmly back to her seat. He proceeded as if the interruption hadn’t occurred.
    â€œThe objects belonged to family members ofMrs. Harcourt’s and, although worth some considerable monetary amount, would be very difficult to dispose of. The police have copies of the photographs and are circulating them throughout the area. We have also posted copies on all dormitory and classroom bulletin boards. There is one in each of your mailboxes.” Faith had a sudden image of Connie racing around the campus with a staple gun and an armload of posters. The whole episode was somewhere between high drama and comic opera, music by Mussorgsky, film by Eisenstein.
    Robert Harcourt’s sonorous, slightly ecclesiastical voice continued on. His calm tone was in marked contrast to his wife’s, but the effect was much the same. An implied threat—retribution, hellfire. Faith forced herself to listen to his words and ignore her thoughts.
    â€œBut I have complete confidence in the kind of community we have here at Mansfield. It may have been an impulsive act. In fact, it must have been an impulsive one, and I’m sure whoever gave in to this weak lapse will feel all the better for returning the objects. And if you happen upon them and are not the culprit, you do not have to tell me where you found them—unless you wish to, of course. Simply restore them to me and we will assume that the act will never be repeated. But I want to make one thing absolutely clear. We cannot survive in an atmosphere of distrust and suspicion. I will not tolerate this kind of behavior. Therefore, I want thismatter settled immediately. The items are to be returned by dinnertime. A note slipped into my mailbox or under my door, telling me where they are, however you wish to handle it. Now, please rise and we will sing the school anthem.”
    Zoë didn’t move from the Niobe pose she’d resumed, and Faith almost toppled over as she stood up. She’d lost all the feeling in her right foot and most of what was in the left.
    Beneath the chords of the rousing hymn to Mansfield, Faith picked up a comment or two from behind. She couldn’t be sure who was speaking, though.
    â€œDon’t remember this much of a fuss when someone swiped McCord’s Palm Pilot.”
    â€œAmen.”
    â€œWhat makes Harcourt so sure it was someone from the school?