Part 15 (1/2)

”I wonder if there's a copy of the school newspaper somewhere,” I said. ”Says here it was called the Minerva Minutes Minerva Minutes. Lucy was editor. Be interesting to see what she wrote.”

”I'll look again, but I didn't see anything like that in the case. Could be somewhere else...”

I think my cousin continued speaking, but I didn't hear what she said because I had just found a picture of the young girl who died, and I couldn't pinpoint it exactly, but something practically jumped out and conked me on the noggin, shouting, Look at me! Look at me! Annie Rose Westbrook reminded me of someone else, someone I knew: not my mother, or Gatlin, or even Vesta. It was in the tilt of her eyes, the tiniest hint of a widow's peak, and a smile that even now looked like a token gesture for the photographer. I felt as if I were looking at a younger version of Mildred Parsons. Annie Rose Westbrook reminded me of someone else, someone I knew: not my mother, or Gatlin, or even Vesta. It was in the tilt of her eyes, the tiniest hint of a widow's peak, and a smile that even now looked like a token gesture for the photographer. I felt as if I were looking at a younger version of Mildred Parsons.

”Gatlin, look at this and tell me what you think!” I held up the book for my cousin, but she quieted me with a raised hand.

”Wait a minute! Is that Gert calling?”

I listened while Gatlin rose and went out to the landing. I could hear Gertrude Whitmire yelling from below.

”Somebody wants me on the phone,” Gatlin called from the doorway. ”I can't imagine who!”

I hurried after her downstairs to find Mrs. Whitmire standing beside her desk while speaking to someone on the phone.

”Yes, she's coming. She's right here,” she said. ”Hold on just a minute.

”Something about a dog,” she whispered, handing the receiver to Gatlin.

”Oh, Lord-that bad Napoleon! Don't tell me he's gotten out again!” Gatlin reached for the phone. ”Yes, this is Gatlin Norwood. Is there a problem with Napoleon? h.e.l.lo...”She shrugged and frowned. ”Oh, dear! I see. Is he still out there? Can you see him?” My cousin made a face and rolled her eyes. ”Right. Of course. I'll get there as soon as I can.

”That was Mabel Tidwell from across the street. Good grief, does the woman have built-in radar? Wonder how she tracked me down here.... Anyway, gotta go. Seems Napoleon's taken a liking to her azalea bed.”

”Uh-oh! Is he still there? Want me to help you chase him down?”

”If I hurry, I think I can corner him. Mabel was watching from the window, trying to keep track of the silly beast. Poor woman just moved in this fall and already my dog's destroying her yard. Guess we won't be on her Christmas cookie list!”

Gertrude stepped from the bathroom, purse tucked under her arm. ”I hope it's nothing serious. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

”Thanks. I left my car at the bookshop, but you can drop me there if you don't mind.” Gatlin sighed. ”This is the second time this week! Looks like we'll have to build a higher fence.”

The older woman dug in her purse for keys and jangled them impatiently. ”I really have to run if I'm going to make that meeting. Arminda, I'm sure you won't mind locking up?”

I was sure I would, but how did you argue with the queen of routine?

”Just be sure you lock that case before you leave and turn off the lights upstairs. You can leave the key in my desk, and the front door will lock behind you.” Gertrude s.h.i.+fted her weight to favor her injured ankle, and I could see she was trying to hide her pain. ”I wouldn't mind waiting, Arminda, but Gatlin doesn't have much time-”

”No, it's all right. You go on. I'll only be a few minutes.” Just long enough to see if I can find more in the academy yearbook about my long-dead aunt Just long enough to see if I can find more in the academy yearbook about my long-dead aunt.

I switched on every light within reach as soon as the door closed behind them and practically raced up the stairs to the third floor. The Planet The Planet lay where I had left it, and this time I went through it page by page from start to finish, making note of any mention of the girls who had belonged to the Mystic Six. lay where I had left it, and this time I went through it page by page from start to finish, making note of any mention of the girls who had belonged to the Mystic Six.

Flora and Annie Rose, decked out in flowing white and trailing garlands, were featured as members of the May Court. Irene's mother, Pauline, with dark curls and dimples, presided over the French Club. Pluma Griffin and Mamie Trammell belonged to the Happy Hikers and the Watercolor Society, the latter of which, had Lucy for treasurer.

I became so fascinated with the girls' various activities, I almost forgot what I came to look for. How did they have time to fit studies into their busy schedule?

If the yearbook was anything to go by, these were six normal girls enjoying the privilege of a select private academy before marriage and family set them upon a plotted course for life. Except for the secretive group they belonged to and the ”hot potato” quilt, I could see nothing unusual about them.

Other than copies of The Planet The Planet, the gla.s.sed-in case held a couple of textbooks; a composition book open to an essay on ”Choices,” written in a graceful, flowing script; a small handbook listing the rules of the academy (I planned to come back to this one later); a maroon felt cap monogrammed with an M M and the year and the year 1915 1915, and several cla.s.s photographs taken in front of Holley Hall.

The building settled about me as tired old houses seem to do at the end of the day. Don't you know it's time to go home? Don't you know it's time to go home? It seemed to say. It seemed to say. I'm tired. Leave me alone! I'm tired. Leave me alone!

Somewhere below me a stair squeaked. Old timbers popped and groaned at the onset of evening, and I had to fight the instinct to crawl into a corner and hide. Only there was no place to hide, and imagination or not, I knew it was time to get out of Holley Hall.

I heard the clock in the hallway downstairs strike five and hurried to put the yearbooks back into the case and lock it before leaving. And as much as I disliked the idea, I turned off the overhead light before pulling the door shut behind me. The lights I had left burning earlier should give me more than enough illumination from below.

But the stairwell was as dark as the thoughts I was having, and the only light came from a street lamp somewhere outside. Too late I heard the m.u.f.fled step behind me, then heavy fabric, musty and smothering, came down over my face and arms, and before I had time to struggle, pain ricocheted through my head. I felt myself pitching forward, and this time there was nothing to grab on to.

Chapter Nineteen.

Instinct told me to go limp-which wasn't a problem, since I didn't have the strength to struggle, and every time I tried to move, the Fourth of July exploded in my head. Whatever had been thrown over me had been collecting dust for at least a hundred years, and I coughed and gasped for air, making the situation even worse. Somebody standing over me grunted as he tugged at the fabric, and I cried out as what felt like a foot came in contact with my back, rolling me into a close, suffocating shroud.

I fought to free my hands, but they were pinned to my sides, and I was being dragged like a bundle of dirty sheets over creaking wooden floors.

And where was Augusta? No wonder she was a temporary guardian angel! She probably couldn't hold a permanent job.

But she had warned me, hadn't she, about doing my part? About not allowing myself to become vulnerable. And what had I done? I had left the house without telling her and ended up in the very place where my cousin Otto met his end.

The person push-pulling me grunted and panted, and thankfully stopped to rest now and then as he hauled me inch by inch across the floor. If only I could delay him until somebody came! Augusta had told me angels don't usually swoop down and rescue people, but this time I think G.o.d might allow just a little swoop. After all, this seemed to be a matter of life and death. My My life. life. My My death. death.

If only I could see! I struggled to move my arms, tear the smothering cloth from my face, but I couldn't work them loose. My breathing came too fast, and my heart beat so loud I thought it would explode.

Jarvis, how could you let this happen to me!

But Jarvis was gone, dead, and it looked as if I might soon join him. I wasn't ready.

This person was going to kill me, and Augusta wasn't going to fly down and s.n.a.t.c.h me up. The only one who could save me was me. me.

Save your strength, Minda!

The direction came from somewhere within me, and I let myself go lax. If only Gatlin would come back! Or Gertrude Whitmire. Anybody! My head struck something hard, and I yelled out. That would definitely leave a bruise-if I lived that long. I had been struck in the hallway, and if I wasn't completely turned around, we must be near the stairwell.

The stairwell. Whoever had waited for me in the dark hall meant to pitch me over the railing!

I couldn't free my arms, but I had enough leverage to bring my knees to my chin. I tucked in my head, doubled into a ball, and heaved myself toward what I hoped was the opposite direction. It might only delay at best, but I would s.n.a.t.c.h whatever time I could. By d.a.m.n, I wasn't going to make this easy!

The person who had been dragging me made some kind of hissing noise, and what must have been the toe of a shoe grazed my s.h.i.+n. I squirmed into a sitting position, inching backward until I was braced against the wall, and prepared myself for a fight.

In silence I waited for the inevitable jerk or the prod of a heavy shoe, my muscles tensing in expectation. The quiet became more threatening than the sound of someone moving about, because I didn't know what to expect or when to expect it, and so I sat, almost afraid to breathe. What were they waiting for?

My nose began to itch, and I couldn't free my hands to scratch it.

Your nose does not itch, Arminda Hobbs! Think of something else... something pleasant... like that good-looking young doctor whose call you didn't return....

A door opened, and heavy footsteps thumped in the hallway below, then hesitated on the stairs. Someone was coming. ”Dear G.o.d in heaven, what's this?” A man spoke; his footsteps grew louder, closer.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and kicked out, wriggling from his grasp.