“Do you think we need to do something about her?” Holt asked Anne. “It would be a pity, after all the trouble we went to.”
Anne smiled, looking suddenly as happy as Sarah had looked. She said, “I’m going to plant a word in the ears of some friends I have left in the business. Let them keep an eye on Sarah. I think in a few years she’ll be a valuable asset.”
Holt said, “That’s the best solution of all.”
“If she talks in the interim,” said Anne, “we’ll be right on it.”
He smiled at her, and Anne smiled back: smiles honest and open, chilling and feral.
Just the way Sarah had smiled.
Small Chances
As I came to know Anne DeWitt better, I realized that what would most upset her would involve becoming the object of someone’s pity… or ridicule. Her job relies on people taking her seriously. When a smear campaign begins, onlookers are sorry for the targets of the attack. But when the campaign ramps up, that pity evolves and a consensus emerges: there’s no smoke without fire. The target must have done something shady to become a target in the first place.
Anne wouldn’t like being involved in that at all was what I figured. She’d do her best to get to the bottom of the situation… and then she’d do something about it.
The campaign against Anne DeWitt began on a spring morning. Anne was used to surprises of the unpleasant variety: she hadn’t been a high school principal forever. The people of Colleton County would have been aghast if they could have seen Anne in her previous incarnation.
But she looked eminently respectable that day, in some very expensive knit pants and a tank under a light sweater. Her fingernails were perfect ovals and her hair was well cut and colored. She was ready to smile at her secretary, who was usually in place by this time.
But Christy Strunk was not at her desk. She was somewhere in the school building; her coffee pot was perking, and the usual pile of messages was centered on Anne’s desk. Anne did not like chatty messages. When Christy had become Anne’s secretary following the death of the previous principal, she’d been prone to give some color commentary. Anne had quickly retrained her.
The top message in the little stack was dated late the previous day, just before Christy left the office. It read, “Your first husband called. Tom Wilson. He says he will come by tomorrow 10 a.m.”
Anne found this curious, since she had never been married.
Anne was not prone to panic. She took a deep breath and considered various scenarios. While she thought, Anne spun in her chair to look the framed pictures on the credenza behind her. The central photograph showed a younger Anne (with a different hair style and wearing blue jeans) and a pleasant-looking man with thick dark hair. Anne and “Brad” were standing in the woods. He was holding the leash of a golden retriever. The young couple were holding hands and beaming at the camera. Even Waffle, the dog, looked happy.
Tragically, Anne’s husband Brad had been killed in a skiing accident before Anne had come to take the job of assistant principal at Travis High. After two years of learning the business, she’d been promoted to principal following the (also tragic) suicide of Delia Snyder.
Along with the “happy family” picture, there were three others: one of Anne’s younger sister Teresa, who lived in San Diego, and two photographs of their (now deceased) parents: one a studio picture in their Sunday clothes, and another taken at Anne’s mother’s birthday party, with many candles on the cake.
Anne had never met any of the people in the photos—or, in fact, her actual biological parents. For all Anne knew, they might be the handsome couple in the picture. Though she seriously doubted it.
Anne had invented her husband Brad. Now, her created background had acquired a new layer.
Anne felt the muscles in her face tighten as she glanced down at the message once more. This was a threat. She had to ascertain its source.
But at the moment, Anne had to put this mysterious problem aside and take care of her ordinary business. That was what a blameless person would do, Anne imagined.
The other messages were more mundane. One was from the parents of a student who might not qualify to graduate in May. Another was from the school nurse, who needed to talk to Anne about the extensive time she was spending with one student. Anne had also received an invitation to speak at the Newcomers Club, and a request to use the school auditorium for a fundraiser. Anne had to talk to the parents and the nurse, and she noted that. She decided to accept the speaking invitation. She’d approach the school board about the use of the auditorium.
After disposing of those matters, Anne gave herself permission to look again at the message from her “first husband.” She found she was quite angry. She turned again to look at “Brad.” Over the years, she’d worked out what he’d been like. It had been fun.
“Good morning,” said Christy from the doorway.
Of course, Christy had noticed that Anne had been looking at the picture of her deceased husband. “I’m sorry about the phone call,” Christy said somberly. She clearly mistook Anne’s barely-controlled rage for deep grief. “I didn’t know you’d been married more than once?”
Anne considered, briefly and rapidly. She could make up a backstory for this first husband—really young, didn’t know what I was doing, never think about it now—and Christy would believe her.
Or she could stick to the legend and hope for the best.
Anne made a quick decision. When in doubt, stick to the legend.
“Brad was my first and only husband, Christy,” Anne said. “I have no idea who Tom Wilson is or why he wants to see me. Or why he’s claiming we were married. But I guess I have to lay eyes on him to find out who he is and what he wants.”
Christy gasped dramatically. “Shouldn’t you call the police?” Carried away by the exciting situation, Christy offered advice to her boss.
Yes, if I was a real person with no secrets, Anne thought. “I hate to draw that much attention to it,” she said, sounding anxious. Anne was sure Christy would enjoy seeing her boss show vulnerability. (Anne was right. Christy was clearly eating this up.)
“Maybe this is someone who’s made an honest mistake,” Anne continued earnestly. “That’s hard to figure out, but I guess it’s possible. After he sees me, he’ll realize he’s got the wrong woman and exit with an apology. Quiet end of a minor problem.”
Very tentatively, Christy said, “You don’t think… maybe we should have the security guard around?”
Delicately put. “I think that’s a great idea,” Anne said. “Paul is on today. He should be outside in the hall.” It would be a cold day in hell before Anne relied on Paul, retired patrolman, to defend her.
“I’ll talk to Paul now. I won’t leave the office until this Wilson guy is out of the building,” Christy said stoutly.
“Thanks, Christy. I guess I’d better get some work done before he gets here.” She nodded at Christy in dismissal.
Christy closed the door behind her. Anne heard the distinctive groan of Christy’s office chair as the secretary settled into it.
Anne speed-dialed a number on her cell phone. “Hey,” said Coach Holt Halsey. “Anne.”
From the outer office, with the door shut, Christy could hear well enough to know Anne was talking, but she couldn’t pick out specific words. Anne knew this from experimentation. Nonetheless, she was careful.