Wait. Isn’t that my line?
“Information?”
“Yes. Information. Do you think I believe Dorothy fell asleep by mistake in her car? Boozed up on brandy from the Head’s affair?” She shakes her head. “And Alethia just fell? I simply refuse to believe that. No matter what that medical examiner says.”
She sighs. “Of course, there’s nothing I can do about it. Police say the case is closed. But I’m just so…” She purses her lips, considering. “I’m just so…Charlie. I know Dottie told your Josh about the phone calls. Did he tell you?”
Uh-oh. I rewind through the promises I’ve made, what I told people I would and wouldn’t tell. What the police know and what they could have told me.
“I gather from your silence he did.” Millie smiles. “And probably had you promise not to tell. Good for you. Let’s go from there. Let’s say I just told you about them, shall we? The anonymous telephone calls she received, disturbing and threatening, asking if she knew where the children were? Absurd. Nothing ever happened. But she was terrified. She was too involved in everyone’s lives for her own good. I always told her that.”
“So was she afraid? After the calls?”
“She couldn’t sleep. And that was unusual. Dottie never had trouble sleeping. She came home one day with sleeping pills and started taking them religiously. Spent a lot of time in her study.”
I take a sip of tea, considering. “Would she have made any notes, maybe? Kept records? Did she have a diary? A journal? Anything like that?”
Millie waves toward the little office. “I just don’t know. A Bexter custodian delivered all her things. All her papers in those boxes in her study. I’ll throw it all away, I suppose.” Her voice catches.
She attempts a smile. “Forgive me. I just can’t bear to go through them right now, and the movers will be here in the next few days. I’m still a bit off center. With it all.”
It’s still before noon. I don’t have to meet Franklin and J.T. for hours. “Millie? If, maybe, there is something in her papers. Would you like me to look?”
Millie nods, and I follow her into the study. But my search turns up nothing. No diary. No ledger. No file of incriminating letters. So much for my revealing investigation of Dorothy Wirt’s secret life. If this is all there is, her life was an open book, centered on everything connected to Bexter. Letters from the bursar to the Head, asking to be in charge of the current push for money. Letters from a board member, somebody named Joan Covino, recommending “successful” consultant Harrison Ebling to lead the donation drive. Memos announcing Ebling. Memos outlining the fundraising campaign. The dean of boys demanding a bigger office. I write it all down in my notebook, names and dates. Boring, boring, Bexter inside baseball. You’d think there’d be more about education and less about money. All I’ve gotten from this search, so far, is a nasty paper cut.
Sitting at her desk in a needlepoint swivel chair, I try to make myself be bad Dorothy. What would I do if I had incriminating information? Where would I put it? If I were embezzling from Bexter bank accounts? Where would I keep the records? Extorting hush money from worried parents? With Alethia as accomplice? Where would we keep track of our victims?
Much as it would make a great story to cast Dorothy as the bitter and vengeful Joan Crawford-y schemer, I just can’t make it fit. Dorothy was a beloved member of the Bexter community. Her desk is crowded with photographs of her with students and parents and babies. Silver-framed graduation ceremonies. What looks like a Christmas pageant. A tiny infant swaddled in a flowered blanket. Dorothy, smiling, holding a bouquet of daisies, surrounded by students. Bexter was her family. Why would she decide to rip them off?
“How are you doing, Charlie?” Millie now has a pale blue smock covering her gray sweater and pants, and a scarf tied over her hair. “Forgive me, I’m packing up a bit. Any luck?”
“Nothing, so far at least. It’s just run-of-the-mill paperwork. Nothing appears to be out of the ordinary. The photos are lovely, though. She was obviously very devoted. And everyone seemed to love her.”
I hold up my right forefinger. “May I use your restroom, though? Before I finish up? I’ve got a little paper cut I want to wash.”
Millie frowns. “Oh, dear. The powder room down here is cleared out, I’m afraid. Do you mind going upstairs? I apologize for the clutter.”
The carpeted stairway is stacked with more boxes. I can see the rectangular discolorations in the paint where someone has taken down pictures or photographs. The upstairs hall is emptying, too. It smells of dust and bleach and change.
The cheery bathroom, blue-sprigged white wallpaper, yellow towels, seems almost sad. I stare into the medicine-cabinet mirror. Tell me something, Dorothy.
Silence. My finger throbs, reminding me I wish I had a Band-Aid. I look at the medicine cabinet again. Why not?
I swing open the mirror. I stare at the jars of pills. Do I dare? Millie asked me to help. And Dorothy is dead. I reach out a hand and swivel the bottles so I can read the labels. Patient’s name: Dorothy Wirt. Temazepam, 10 mg. Take once daily for insomnia. Patient’s name: Dorothy Wirt. Nifedipine. 5 mg. One each day for high blood pressure.
According to the date on the label, the sleeping stuff, thirty pills, was dispensed…I calculate on my fingers. About fifteen days ago. Dorothy died…I calculate again. Exactly a week ago. So there should be more than twenty pills here, even if she took one every day she was alive. Gingerly, I pick up the amber plastic container. The label covers the whole thing, so I can’t see inside. No refills, it says. I slowly turn it upside down, listening. Click. Click. Click. This bottle is nowhere near full.
Maybe she took too many by mistake. But when? Maybe she took too many on purpose. Maybe she did kill herself. But why?
Millie will be wondering where I am. And suddenly I realize I’m an idiot. I touched the pill bottle. Should I wipe my fingerprints off?
“Charlie? Are you all right?” It’s Millie. Her voice, inquiring, rises up the stairs.
I have to go.
Using the back of my hand, I push the medicine cabinet closed.
Millie meets me at the bottom of the stairs. Her once-composed face is blotched and red. Her eyes are teary.
“I’m so sorry, Charlie. I started looking at Dorothy’s things, packing.” She sighs, pulling herself together. Gives me a wan attempt at a smile. “I think I might just take a short nap. Put my feet up. Before I tackle the rest of the boxes. I have a whole week, so they tell me. So no rush, I suppose.”
A week. And she’ll pack up the bathroom last. I may have some time, so I’ll wait and see what happens. And if the pills prove Dorothy killed herself, accidentally or not, maybe better that her sister never knows.
“Of course,” I say. “My coat?”
“Is in Dorothy’s study. And please, Charlie. Do finish going through Dorothy’s things, if you like. You may find something. And besides, then I won’t have to face those boxes again. I would be forever grateful.”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll call you if I find something.”
Millie starts up the stairs, her blue-veined hand holding on to the polished wooden banister. Suddenly she seems like the old sixty-five. “Just let yourself out, dear.”
The only box left is marked “5 of 5.” Helpful. I slit open the packing tape with a letter opener. Inside, wrapped in newspapers, what feels like a vase. Under that, a desk blotter. Under that, a couple of Boston Globes. Whoever packed this must have just thrown in everything in sight. I put the already yellowing newspapers aside. Under that, a ream box of paper, all blank. And next to that, the last thing in the box is a pamphlet with glossy covers, legal size, stapled on the spine. The title is in bold-faced embossed gold. Bexter Fundraising Report. On the cover, three noticeably diverse Bexter students stride cheerfully across the tulip-filled Bexter yard.