Free Cold Case by Linda Barnes Page B

need is a faculty list.”
    â€œA list would be marvelous,” I agreed.
    â€œMy husband has them.” Her brow stayed wrinkled, her mouth pursed.
    â€œProbably keeps things like that in his office, don’t you think?” I suggested offhandedly.
    His office. She charged down the hall like a knight in pursuit of the Holy Grail, and I started some serious staring. Class of ’73? ’74? Which would be Thea’s class? No leatherbound edition of Nightmare’s Dawn graced any trophy case. In light of its content I wasn’t surprised.
    She came back too quickly, with a flimsy sheet of paper, two large folders, and the flushed face of success. “I’ve got the faculty list. We have some very prominent professors who give generously of their time.”
    â€œWonderful,” I enthused.
    â€œAnd I brought two applications. Just in case,” she said.
    I wondered whether they offered a two-for-one deal on application fees. Probably not.
    I studied my watch, made a clicking sound with my teeth.
    â€œI really have to be going,” I said.
    â€œBut you haven’t seen the gymnasium—”
    â€œI know, but since there’s so little chance of admission—”
    â€œYou, really ought to hear my husband talk about this place. He’s an alumnus.”
    I did a little rapid arithmetic. He could be ten years older than his wife and still be called “young” by the teenage gardener. He could have been Thea’s classmate.
    â€œI’d certainly like to speak to him,” I said. “Let me give you my card.” I chose a plain one. Address and phone number. Nothing concerning profession.
    â€œA pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Emerson,” I said.
    She stole a look at my card. “Miss Carlyle.”
    â€œOh, and your husband’s first name?”
    â€œAnthony.”
    â€œTony?”
    â€œHe prefers Anthony.”
    â€œThank you so much.”
    We said our farewells at the door of the Victorian. Once she disappeared inside, I quickly ran my finger down the faculty list. No Adam Mayhew, no teacher with the initials A.M.
    I walked back to the mansion and sat on the front porch, not really waiting for the headmaster to return, but trying to put myself in a place Thea might have been. I looked across the grand lawn with the eyes of the young woman who’d written Nightmare’s Dawn , saw her imaginary snakes and rodents. Moles digging by night, secrets eating at the students by day. Cliques, anorexia nervosa, hazing, bullying, underground societies, exclusion.
    I blinked. The sky was azure, furred by high cirrus clouds. The air smelled of fresh-mown grass. To me, it looked like Eden the day before God created apples.

9
    It was too hot to rush home. I walked slowly, savoring the colors of late summer blossoms I couldn’t name, impressed by the industriousness of bees. No one tailed me. I heard the ragged engine of a motorbike and wondered idly whether any self-respecting mobster would use such primitive transport, but it traveled another street.
    Stifling an urge to kick the mail under the rug, I grabbed the envelopes cascading from my door slot. The kind of correspondence I get usually isn’t worth bending down for. Circulars from my local hardware and grocery stores, like I have the time or inclination to clip coupons for things I never wanted in the first place. Reminders to visit the dentist who once charged me a bundle to replace a tooth knocked out in the line of duty.
    A postcard from Paolina made me smile, her irregular scrawl on one side, a quaint New Hampshire vista—small-town idyll spiked with white church towers—on the other. I inhaled, holding the card close to my face, wishing I could smell the cherry Life Savers aroma of my little sister. She’s thirteen now, the single truth in the pack of lies I’d dealt Mrs. Emerson, but I remember her best at seven, bruised, scared, and defiant. Despite her