Part 14 (2/2)

As we left, I noticed Sylvie Smith in line behind us waiting to pay her bill. I nodded, but she didn't seem to recognize me. Edna, who was putting on her coat, waved when she saw us. How long had they been there?

I opened the restaurant door to a blast of cold air as we stepped outside.

”First I think we should check out the place where it all began,” my cousin said.

”What do you mean?”

”I mean Minerva Academy,” Gatlin said.

Chapter Eighteen.

Now?” I looked at my watch. It was almost four o'clock, and the sky was that dirty dryer lint color that on rainy November afternoons, suddenly wraps you in gray. Daylight was almost gone.

”What better time? My two are spending the afternoon at Vesta's,” Gatlin said. ”I'll have to make it kind a fast, though. I need to pick up some things for the church Thanksgiving basket on the way home. Monday's the last day, and Vesta will have my head if I forget.”

The idea of going back inside that building made me wish I'd stayed at home. I dragged my feet. ”But-”

”Mrs. Whitmire should still be there if we hurry,” Gatlin said, grabbing my arm. ”Come on, get the lead out, Minda!”

The grounds of the old academy had been preserved pretty much as I imagine they were a hundred years ago, and it was easy to visualize young girls in long dresses strolling arm in arm along the curving paths. I always considered that period in history an innocent time, and in my mind, the schoolgirls are usually whispering, laughing over some benign secret. Even though the huge oaks had shed most of their leaves, the campus was shadowed by tall hollies cl.u.s.tered along the paths; wind ruffled the spreading cedar that almost concealed the arched entrance.

A light shone from the hallway, and I could see someone moving about in the dimly lit parlor. Holley Hall had been built of dark red brick that had become even darker with time, and the mock Gothic arches along the porch seemed too heavy for the building. A wisteria vine, now bare of leaves, twisted to the third story, where Otto had sometimes worked in the school's library, and above that squatted a cupola that was said at one time to have housed a bell.

”My goodness, you startled me! I was just getting ready to close up for the day.” Gertrude Whitmire switched on a lamp beside her desk and dumped her tan leather purse into a drawer. ”I didn't expect visitors this late on such a dreary afternoon, but there's still time to look around, if you like. Is there something you girls would especially like to see?”

I'd seen enough of that place to last me a lifetime, but I wouldn't mind having another look at our great grandmother's hand-st.i.tched alma mater, and said so.

”Of course, Arminda. I believe you know where to find it,” our hostess said.

”Is it all right if we look around upstairs?” Gatlin asked. ”I'd like to see where Otto spent so much of his time. I promise not to bother anything.”

”You're welcome to browse as much as you like,” Gertrude Whitmire said. ”I hope you won't mind if I don't give you a guided tour. I'm afraid my ankle's still a bit swollen, and I'm trying to avoid stairs if I can.”

The bruise on Gertrude's cheek had yellowed, and the sc.r.a.pes on her hands hadn't quite healed. The cane, I noticed, leaned against the desk within easy reach.

”I'll be up in a minute!” I called as Gatlin started up the heavy oak staircase.

The door to the parlor was closed, but a light still burned on a table by the window. The room was damp and stuffy, and I pulled my jacket closer about me and hurried to where I knew the needlework hung on the other side of the fireplace, hoping to find something I might have missed. From all I'd learned, the Mystic Six had been a tightly knit group, and it looked as if the secret or secrets they harbored would die with Mamie Estes-unless Lucy Westbrook had st.i.tched a message somewhere on the sampler.

But only a pale rectangle marked the place where it had hung.

”It's gone! It's not here!”

I don't know how long I stood there staring at the spot where the framed needlework had hung, as if I could make it reappear.

”Did you say something, Arminda?” Mrs. Whitmire paused in the doorway, magazine in hand, and I had the distinct notion I had disturbed her reading.

”The alma mater. It's not here.”

”What do you mean, it's not there?” Even hobbling, the woman almost bulldozed me in her haste to cross the room. ”Why, I can't imagine where it would be. I could almost swear I dusted that frame this morning...or maybe it was yesterday... well, sometime this week.”

”Maybe your brother had it reframed,” I suggested, hoping I was right.

”Hugh? I doubt it. That costs money, and there was nothing wrong with the frame it was in. But you know, there was a woman here yesterday who seemed unusually interested. I wonder...” Gertrude Whitmire twitched a window drapery, glanced behind a chair as if she thought someone might have hidden it there, and then-apparently seeing my disappointed expression-put a hand on my shoulder. ”I'm sure it will turn up. Someone might have accidently broken it, and I expect Hugh has put it away somewhere. You'd be surprised at how some parents let their children run wild in here!”

”That woman,” I said. ”The one who was here...Doyou remember what she looked like? Maybe she signed the guest register.”

Gertrude frowned, hesitating. ”You know, she might have. Why don't you take a look? The register's on that stand in the hallway.”

I riffled hurriedly through its pages, but the last visitors to sign the book had been there over a week before.

”Would you say she was sort of fiftish-neat, with graying blond hair?” I asked.

Gertrude considered that. ”Well, yes, now that you mention it, she did look something like that. Is she someone you know, Arminda?”

”I'm not sure,” I told her, wondering if Peggy O'Connor had been here before me.

Upstairs I found Gatlin examining old photographs and yellowed mementos from the early days of the academy on a gla.s.s-enclosed table in the center of the library. She turned when I came in. ”Can you believe this, Minda? The cla.s.s of 1913 had only eight members. When did Lucy graduate?”

”Several years after that I think. Vesta said she and some of the others stayed on as teachers' a.s.sistants and took advanced courses for college credit.”

”I'm shocked. I thought Great-grandma already knew everything!” Gatlin made a face. ”Here's a first edition of those little animal books the professor wrote.”

I told her about the missing alma mater, and we looked to see if Hugh Talbot had put it away somewhere in the library. I wasn't surprised when we didn't find it. ”Do you think Wordy Gerty would mind if we looked through some of these old yearbooks?” I asked.

”Can't. The case is locked. We can ask, though. Maybe she'll let us have the key.”

”Want me to ask?”

”That's okay. Besides, she kind a likes me. I was one of her better students.” My cousin flung out her arms and twirled in what she must've considered a boastful dance. ”Also, I have to go to the bathroom. Need to come?”

”Are you kidding? I'd tie my legs in a knot before I'd go in that room again!” In fact, I wasn't too comfortable waiting upstairs alone and wished I'd told Augusta where I'd be.

I was glad when I heard Gatlin's quick, light steps on the stairs. ”Gert says make it snappy,” she said, holding up a small key. ”She has a meeting tonight and has to run by the grocery store on the way home.”

The yearbooks were greenish brown and the binding was nothing but string. The t.i.tle, The Planet The Planet, and a likeness of something that looked like Saturn were embossed in gold on the cover. We each took one and placed them carefully on a table by the window. Mine opened to a pressed flower-a rose, I think-and I wondered who put it there. I was surprised to see that a lot of the posed photographs weren't all that different from the ones you find in annuals today-except, of course for the clothing.

A group of young women in dark bloomers and middy blouses posed with tennis rackets. Members of the Equestrian Club-ten in number-sat sidesaddle on their mounts.

”Here's our Lucy,” Gatlin pointed out. ”Cla.s.s president, of course. She must've been a senior that year...and would you look at her list of credits! There's hardly room for them all: editor of the school paper, member of the student council, Minerva Singers, lab a.s.sistant... blah, blah, blah! Was there anything she couldn't do?”

”Doesn't sound like she did such a bang-up job of looking out for her younger sister,” I said, and was immediately sorry for saying it.

Lucy Westbrook's pretty young face smiled out at us from an oval in the center of the page. Her hair looked as if it might have been the same auburn as my mother's and Gatlin's, and her eyes were large and dark, but her mouth and the set of her chin could have been my own. ”I didn't mean that,” I whispered aloud more to myself than to her picture.

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