“Swenson, Karl Swenson.”
“That’s it! How did you know? And the girl’s name was Olga.”
“No, that’s the wife. The girl was called Ellen.”
“Yes, yes. You’ve got it! What makes you ask about this?”
“I’ve been trying to find Ellen ever since she went missing a week ago, leaving behind her own little girl, a child called Veronica.”
“Has this been in the papers? I’m afraid I only take the Times now. For the crossword puzzle. Don’t read the local papers much anymore.”
“Yes, Dr. Mayhew, we’ve been covering it. And what you are telling me now is extremely helpful. May I ask, was Arabic Ali’s first language? And what brought him to your school?”
“Right, on the Arabic. His mother brought him to the school, literally and, I suspect, figuratively, too. That is, her inability to handle him—his learning disabilities and speech impediment—and perhaps some over-severe discipline in her household administered by her or, more likely, by her husband—had made the boy unmanageable. Like all of our boys, he could not thrive in a typical public school. But his was a need for less rather than more discipline, along with lots of speech therapy and ESL.”
“You mean English as a Second Language?”
“Right again. We didn’t have those kinds of specialists on hand, unfortunately. And even if we had, it’s unlikely they’d have been proficient in Arabic. Still, perhaps they could have put to rest my question about how tongue-tied he actually was. When he was in trouble or agitated, he sometimes hummed or sort of mumbled. I had to wonder if he was doing the Arabic equivalent of a ‘Hail, Mary,’ if you know what I mean. That’s not a very politically correct way of putting it, but I mean sort of calling on his deity.” Dr. Mayhew shook himself. “Then again, he could have been mumbling a nursery rhyme, pop lyrics, or hurling out curses, for all anyone knew. His native language was a mystery to me.”
“Do you remember him saying anything when he was being hounded by Mr. Swenson?”
“Nothing specific. But it would have been typical for him to sort of clutch his hands around his knees and mumble while looking caught, like a deer in the headlights.”
“What happened to him after the incident?”
“We had to expel the poor bugger. I argued to the board that we should keep him on until a case was proven against him, but they nixed that. The school was in trouble financially and the board feared Swenson’s ire would be the last nail in our coffin. They thought he’d go to the press. As it turned out, Swenson went mum as soon as Ali left. It was a matter of a day or two before the boy’s parents came to collect him. As for his fate after that, I’m in the dark. I wrote down the name of a colleague at another school whom I thought might consider admitting Ali to his program, but I saw the boy’s dad stuff the paper I wrote it on into a trash bin before the family got into their car. All I can say is I hope Ali was able to put his ear to good use.”
“His ear?”
“He had perfect pitch. And he was clever, mechanically. Strange that a boy who faltered at speaking could sing like a lark. According to the music teacher, who came round once every two weeks, he could tell you what note you were playing just by hearing it. After Ali took apart our piano and fixed a broken key, the music teacher wanted to introduce him to a piano tuner he knew. He said the man was getting old and might take on an apprentice. But Ali was expelled before that could come to pass.”
“Are you still in contact with the music teacher?”
“I never see him, but his wife always sends me a Christmas card. This year was no exception. I remember noticing the address was different this year, but I didn’t save it. I never send Christmas cards. I just threw out the envelope.”
“Do you remember anything about the address? Was it in Massachusetts, for instance?”
Dr. Mayhew paused. “No, I don’t remember a thing about where it was. But I do remember thinking, ‘God forbid I ever have to live in a place called Harmony Haven. Appropriate for a music teacher, though, I suppose. You’ll want to know his name, of course. It’s Buxton, Clifford Buxton.”
Regarding his book- and paper-strewn surroundings with an expression blending fondness and chagrin, he continued, “And that brings us to your question about resolutions and resolve. Most of my boys possessed neither. And what kind of mentor would I have been, in the unlikely event that any of them came up with resolutions? A very poor one, I’m afraid. Do you know how many times I’ve made the resolution to sort out this stuff? That number is on the verge of the infinite. But have I exercised any resolve? You tell me,” he said with a chuckle.
As Liz stood up to leave, the doorbell rang. Embarrassed, she realized it was probably the Banner’s photographer. Despite having no forewarning, Dr. Mayhew cooperated in having his photo taken as Liz thanked him and rushed off to her car.
In her car, Liz used her new cell phone to call the Newton police. Their public information officer confirmed the wallpaper stripping at Fenwick Street was done on their orders. The officer would neither reveal what the police had hoped to find nor what had spurred the authorities to strip the little girl’s room. Now that she thought about it, Liz realized that, while comforting Olga Swenson, she had failed to scrutinize Veronica’s bare walls. That was a missed opportunity but not overly worrisome, since she knew it was her own report that had inspired the strip search. And Liz also knew that Veronica’s request for the wallpaper was made only after she had asked a half-dozen Santas for every other gift she’d ever wished for.
This last thought caused Liz to pick up her cell phone one more time. She would have to make this call quickly, since she had to get back into the heart of Boston to meet with the DYS girls.
The phone rang several times before Tom’s voice—unaccompanied this time—announced, “Hi! You’ve reached Tip Top Paper Hangers. Leave a message and I’ll get right back to you.”
Until this afternoon, Liz only thought about Tom’s work in regard to his predictable appearances changing the displays on her billboard. But of course, he also worked hanging wallpaper in people’s homes. He would know where to find wallpaper with a Madeline motif, if anyone did. And—just perhaps—it wouldn’t be such a tragedy if the same pattern could not be found. Hadn’t Veronica asked Santa for new wallpaper?
“Hi, Tom. It’s Liz,” she said into her phone. “I’ve just had a brainstorm and, oh, how I hope you can help me with it. Please call me as soon as possible.” She reminded him of her home phone number and announced her new cell phone number, too.
Next, she phoned Olga Swenson’s residence, only to be greeted by an answering machine message there, too.
“Mrs. Swenson, it’s Liz calling,” she told the machine, adding both telephone numbers. “I told you I would do my best about Veronica’s wallpaper and I have an idea to share with you. Please phone me at your first convenience.”
As she was about to hang up, a male voice broke in on the line. It was Erik Johansson. “I’m afraid my mother-in-law is quite upset,” he said. “She told me you spent some time with her this afternoon, but little more than that.”
“Did she tell you about Ellen’s reading list?”
“A reading list? No. What about it? She seemed most overcome by the wallpaper stripping. I felt remiss that I didn’t forewarn her about the room. I never thought she’d stop by like that before I could mention it. The police said there was a report in the paper that Veronica was desperate to change her wallpaper so they came to inspect it. When they didn’t find any rude words scrawled upon it or blood smears or whatever else they hoped to find, they took the next step and stripped it to see what was underneath.”