by Wendy Webb
“I don’t know the exact cause of death,” I said. It was mostly the truth. I knew she had taken the pills, but I didn’t know which pills, specifically. Splitting hairs, I knew. And I also knew the truth would come out, but it didn’t have to come from me.
“Come on, Norrie. Can’t you tell me anything more?”
“I can tell you that she died in her bed,” I said. “That’s where we found her.”
“So, you were the one who found her?” More clicking.
“No,” I said. “It was a staff member, who then called me immediately. I was the one who called the police.”
“Can you tell me the staff member’s name?”
“I can,” I said to her. “But I won’t. The last thing this person needs is for you or another reporter to intrude right now.”
“Fair enough,” Meg said. “Anything else?”
“I want to assure people that the retreat for artists and writers here at Cliffside Manor will continue,” I said, with an air of finality. “Our docket is full for the coming year, and those artists and writers need to know that nothing is going to change.”
As I said the words, I realized what I needed to do with the rest of my day.
“Meg, I really have to go.”
“Thanks, Norrie,” she said, still clicking away. “I appreciate your time.”
After we ended the call, I realized that she hadn’t asked me too much about how I was handling this, how I was adjusting to my new life, or anything else a real friend would ask. She only wanted to get the story after all.
I crossed the room and pressed the buzzer for the intercom.
“Yes, Miss Harper?”
“Harriet, I have a feeling the news media is going to be calling here today and perhaps even stopping by,” I said to her. “I just took a call from the newspaper.”
“Aye,” she said. “I suspected as much.”
“Please let me do the talking about this,” I said to her. “The last thing you need is to be answering a bunch of intrusive questions. That was my job for many years, what they’re doing now, and I know just how to handle them.”
“Of course, Miss Harper,” she said. “I wouldn’t presume to speak on behalf of Cliffside. That’s your job now.”
I supposed it was. “About that,” I went on. “I made the decision not to tell the newspaper about the suicide. I told the reporter we found Miss Penny in her bed but didn’t know the exact cause of death.”
“I see,” Harriet said, her voice cracking.
“If anybody corners you, that’s our story. Okay?”
“I understand, Miss Harper,” Harriet said. “And thank you. Thank you very much. I’ll spread the word to the staff.”
I wondered how many calls I’d be taking from the media in the coming days. But until they started coming, I had work to do, and it was best I get to it.
I had left the notebook containing the dossiers of the incoming fellows on the writing desk in my sitting room. I scooped it up and made my way back out to the balcony.
I settled onto one of the two chaises and opened the notebook, where I found a sheet on each one of the fellows, neatly typewritten on what must have been a manual typewriter, if the script was any indication.
Cassandra Abbott
Type of artist: Writer, nonfiction
Work in progress: A profile of TB sanatoriums in the Midwest, circa 1900
Reason for applying for the fellowship: Need for solitude.
Expected outcome of fellowship: Completion of the book.
Bio: Cassandra Abbott is the author of seventeen nonfiction books all dealing with aspects of United States history.
Richard Banks
Type of artist: Photographer
Work in progress: None
Reason for applying for the fellowship: Unrestricted access to the Cliffside grounds.
Expected outcome of fellowship: A series of black-and-white, atmospheric photographs of the Lake Superior shoreline.
Bio: After twenty years at National Geographic magazine, Richard Banks opened his own gallery, specializing in nature photography, in his home in Cornwall, England.
Henry Dalton
Type of artist: Painter, oils
Work in progress: None
Reason for applying for the fellowship: Unrestricted access to the Cliffside gardens.
Expected outcome of fellowship: A series of paintings of the gardens of Cliffside for an exhibit he intends to hold later this summer.
Bio: Henry Dalton is a successful artist, specializing in local landscapes.
Brynn Kendrick
Type of artist: Writer, fiction
Work in progress: A novel
Reason for applying for the fellowship: Miss Kendrick hopes to be inspired by the pristine natural beauty of Cliffside.
Expected outcome of fellowship: Forward progress on the novel.
Bio: Brynn Kendrick is a promising writer working on her first book.
Diana Cooper
Type of artist: Writer, poetry
Work in progress: A book of poems inspired by the concept of solitude.
Reason for applying for the fellowship: The isolation provided by the Cliffside setting.
Expected outcome of fellowship: Completion of the book.
Bio: Diana Cooper is a professor of poetry at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.
So, starting in just a few days, these people would be my housemates for the coming month. This “dossier” certainly didn’t tell me very much about them beyond the basics. I looked at the photographer’s name again, Richard Banks, and a glimmer of recognition sizzled through my brain. Oh, yes, I remembered, we had done a profile of him in the newspaper a few years before. I don’t think I even read it, but I recalled seeing his name splashed across the page above dramatic photographs shot, if I was remembering correctly, in Africa. Well, that was one I knew, anyway. The others I had never heard of.
Something’s missing, though. Where were the essays each aspiring fellow had to write? I know Miss Penny had told me about those. The essay was one of the ways she decided who would come to Cliffside. I pushed myself out of my chaise. Maybe there was another folder in the director’s office. My office.
I padded from my suite down the hallway and opened the door. The top of the desk was empty, save for an old, manual typewriter, the telephone, and a notepad and pen sitting beside it. The bookshelf was filled with books, but no files.
I sank into the chair and began opening drawers until I found what I was looking for—a drawer full of hanging files, each with a tab labeled for the coming sessions: May/June, July/August, September/October, November/December, January/February, March/April. This was it.
I saw that the May/June file was empty, having been filled, I assumed, with the notes I had read back in my room. I reached into the July/August file, pulled out a folder, and opened it onto my desk.
It contained notes just like the ones for the upcoming group of fellows, but it also included the essays.
The opportunity to come to Cliffside is unparalleled . . .
Cliffside Retreat will provide me with . . .
As a writer, solitude . . .
No ringing telephone, no Internet distractions, no husband to make dinner for, no children to take to soccer practice . . .
I smiled at that last one. But where were the essays for my upcoming group? I hunted around some more and came up with nothing. In the end, I said to myself, it really didn’t matter. They had already been selected; their essays had done the trick. They were coming, whether I liked their essays or not. It was just that it might have been nice to know a bit more about the people in my first group before they arrived, but what I did know would have to do.
I did one last search of the desk and found something else that I needed. A file labeled: Contact Information for the Fellows. I smiled again. All of these paper files, organized just so, but paper nonetheless. I scanned the room and didn’t see a computer anywhere, probably due to Miss Penny�
�s age. I had my laptop with me, but I made a mental note to ask the accountant to authorize the purchase of a computer and Internet service to drag Cliffside into the modern age. That was one thing I could do with my time, at least.
I pulled out the contacts file, set it on the desk, and opened the drawer where I had seen stationery and envelopes a moment earlier. Everybody needed to be informed of Miss Penny’s death before they arrived, and they’d need reassurance from me that it was going to be business as usual, that nothing had changed but the director. Now was the time to write those letters. I had everyone’s email addresses and could have simply dashed off a group message if Cliffside had Internet service, but that just didn’t feel right. No, a handwritten note to each of them was more appropriate. It would be a good opportunity to introduce myself to them as well. As I began writing, I hoped the fellows wouldn’t be too disappointed that I, and not the storied Penelope Dare, was to be their hostess at Cliffside.
Thirty minutes later, my hand sore with writer’s cramp—I hadn’t put so many words on paper manually in a very long time—I had the letters written to the five incoming fellows. A brief explanation of Miss Penny’s death with no mention of the suicide, a welcome from me, and that was that.
I stuck stamps I found in the top drawer onto the corners of each envelope and gathered them all up, intent on making my way downstairs to ask Harriet how we dealt with the mail here at Cliffside, when the telephone on the desk rang.
I groaned, thinking it was another media call or even Meg calling back. It wasn’t.
“This is Cassandra Abbott,” said the voice on the other end of the line—a rather harsh voice, I thought. “To whom am I speaking?”
“Eleanor Harper,” I said. “I’m the director here at Cliffside. What can I do for you, Miss Abbott? I’m looking forward to your arrival next week.”
“It’s doctor,” she said. “Doctor Abbott. I have my PhD.” She cleared her throat. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“You know very well what,” she said, over-enunciating each word. “Is Penelope Dare dead?”
“I’m afraid it’s true,” I said. “I’ve just finished writing letters to each of the—”
“It can’t be,” she broke in. “It just can’t be.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said to her, my tone gentle and low. “I know this must come as quite a shock to you, as it is to us. Did you know Miss Dare well?”
She let out an audible sigh. “Know her? I didn’t know her at all. I’d never met the woman. But she was the whole point of me coming to Cliffside. I’m writing about TB sanatoriums—”
“I know what you’re writing about, Miss—Doctor—Abbott.” I was glad I had thought to read the dossiers.
“Well, then you know I won’t be able to finish my project without talking to Penelope Dare. The wealth of personal information she had! What a waste. What an utter waste. All of the years I spent researching and waiting, completely down the drain.”
I looked at the handset, my mouth agape. Did she really just say that? This was the diva behavior Miss Penny had warned me about. My tone went ice cold. “I’m so very sorry that Miss Penny’s death has inconvenienced your highly important book project,” I said, the sarcasm dripping from my words. “But we here at Cliffside, especially the longtime staff, are dealing with the grief of losing a great lady. Since her death has made your visit to Cliffside such a waste of time for you, I will happily take you off the roster for this session. There are literally hundreds of people who would be thrilled to come in your place. Goodbye, Miss Abbott.”
As I was putting the handset back on the body of the phone, I heard her speak. “Wait! Wait! No!”
“Did you say something?”
“You can’t take me off the roster.”
“I most certainly can,” I said to her.
“But I have my time already scheduled,” she said. “My plans are made.”
“I really don’t care about your plans.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally, “I’ve offended you. Is that it?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s it. How dare you call here, today of all days, in a snit because your research plans were disrupted by the death of a woman who was beloved here at Cliffside?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, sighing. “I didn’t think.”
“That, Miss Abbott, is obvious. And I daresay that the hundreds of people who applied for your spot here wouldn’t think it a waste to come to Cliffside.”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I don’t think it’s a waste. It’s just that I was planning to interview Penelope Dare about her experiences at Cliffside when it was a sanatorium. It was going to be the basis of my book.”
“Apparently, death cares just as much about your plans as I do,” I said to her.
She ignored this. “I really do want to come to Cliffside,” she went on. “You don’t understand—or maybe you do—I’ve applied for this fellowship seven times. That’s how long I’ve been waiting to talk to Penelope Dare. And now, just when I get accepted . . .” She wisely didn’t say any more.
My spine tingled. It really was bad luck; I had to admit that despite the bitter taste this woman left in my mouth. “No, Doctor Abbott, I didn’t know you had applied seven times,” I said. “I’m new here. I just started. Yesterday, as a matter of fact.”
“Yesterday?” she parroted. “Oh, Lord. What an ordeal you’ve been through.”
“My first day was quite interesting, I’ll give you that,” I said. “I’m expecting it to get easier from here.” I sighed. “Please tell me the truth, Doctor Abbott. Is there still value for you to come to Cliffside, now that Miss Penny is gone? I really meant it about the hundreds of people who applied for your spot. If this isn’t going to benefit you—”
“No!” she said. “I mean, yes. I’ll have to shift gears in my focus, but it will still have enormous value for me to write on the grounds of a former sanatorium, especially Cliffside. The inspiration alone. Please. May I still come?”
I considered this for a moment. Denying her now as a punishment for her thoughtless remarks, after she had applied seven times, would simply be vindictive. “Very well,” I said, finally. “It would likely be too late to invite someone else, anyway. But let me warn you not to say anything to the staff like you said to me. It would go over even worse with them.”
“Duly noted,” she said, her tone becoming much more pleasant. “Keep foot from mouth at all times. I’ll remember. And thank you.”
Something Miss Penny had said to me the day before rang in my ears. “You should know, also, that the mother of a member of our staff was a TB patient here when Cliffside was a sanatorium,” I said. “Perhaps she’d agree to talk with you. She basically runs the show around here.”
“Oh?” she said, her voice brightening. “I didn’t know that. I would indeed like to talk with her.”
“I’m not sure she’ll be willing, but I’ll be happy to ask her on your behalf.”
“Thank you, thank you so much, Miss—Harper, was it?”
“Please, call me Eleanor,” I said. “Miss Penny was very formal, but I’m a much more casual person. First names are fine with me.”
“Then I’m Cassandra,” she said. “I look forward to meeting you. I’m so sorry my thoughtlessness caused us to get off on the wrong foot.”
“Think nothing more of it,” I said. I was about to hang up, but something occurred to me then. “May I ask—why didn’t you just interview Miss Penny by phone, or simply pay a visit to Cliffside, if her experiences were so important to your book? Why wait until you got a fellowship?”
“I tried, believe me,” she said. “She wouldn’t allow it. She said she’d only share her memories if I were a fellow at Cliffside. So I kept applying, and she kept turning me down. For seven years. I have to be honest, it started to feel personal.”
“And now this.”
“And now this.”
After we hung up
, I had to admit to myself that I could understand the reason for Cassandra Abbott’s anger upon learning of Miss Penny’s death, despite how off-putting it had been for me to hear. And I wondered why Miss Penny had turned her down time after time only to accept her into the first group of fellows she knew she wouldn’t be around to greet.
CHAPTER 7
After delivering the envelopes to Harriet and telling her about my encounter with Cassandra Abbott, I spent the rest of the day as I had predicted—dealing with the media firestorm that Miss Penny’s death had caused. Call after call from local, and even national news organizations. Smithsonian Magazine. Vanity Fair. Even AARP. I was interviewed on-air for all of the local television stations. NBC sent a crew. ABC was coming the next day. Someone from the National Endowment for the Arts called to pay their respects. I had known that Cliffside Manor was an important arts organization in the area, but I hadn’t known how revered it was nationally, now and even during Chester Dare’s day.
By dinnertime, I was exhausted and retreated back to my suite.
“Miss Penny, where’s that sedate, uncomplicated job you promised me?” I said into the air. I shuddered when a tendril of icy cold slithered up my spine in response.
