Dangerous Habits

by Susan Hunter

  “That’s great, thank you. Just one more thing, Sister Margaret. Do you remember if Lacey was friendly with a blonde kid, a boy somewhere around 9 or 10?”

  “Oh yes. That would be Danny Howard. Beautiful child, small for his age though. He was actually 12, I think. She stepped in when one of the bigger boys was bullying him one day. He was devoted to her. Just devastated when she disappeared. He became very withdrawn and uncooperative. In fact, he was outplaced not long afterwards.”

  “Outplaced?”

  “Yes, sometimes the children who aren’t doing well in the group environment here are sent for one-to-one intensive family care. Some of the students do better in that setting.”

  “And Danny, did he do well?”

  Her chipper expression faded.

  “No. I’m afraid he didn’t. Eventually, he ran away. He was never found.”

  I thanked her and turned to leave, clutching Delite’s phone number in my hand. I had almost reached the door when she called me back.

  “Leah, wait! I’d forget my head if it weren’t screwed on.” She waggled back and forth in a gesture of self-exasperation that sent her veil fluttering.

  “What is it, Sister Margaret?”

  “You should talk to Mr. Palmer. He had Lacey in his office the day she disappeared. Maybe she said something to him that would help you.”

  “Isn’t disciplining students a little below the Board Chairman’s pay grade?”

  “Oh, he wasn’t disciplining her. He was rescuing her. Remember, I told you one of our new intakes kicked up quite a ruckus that day? Sometimes that happens and with this boy there was a lot of shouting and some language, I can tell you. The things I’ve heard would make my father blush, and he had quite a salty tongue.

  “I had to call security. Lacey was sitting in that corner chair over there waiting to see Sister Julianna, and Mr. Palmer had come out to see what the commotion was. He spotted Lacey and right away he went over and took her to his office to get her out of the fray. It was a good 20 minutes or more before things calmed down. So, when I remembered, I thought maybe you’d like to speak with him.”

  Fourteen

  As I walked to my car, a gust of wind caught hold of Delite’s address while I was trying to tuck it in my purse. After a few undignified stoop and runs across the concrete, I nabbed it with my foot and bent down to pick it up. When I stood and turned around, Reid Palmer was directly behind me.

  “Wow. The Secret really does work,” I said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I was just wishing I could talk to you, and here you are.”

  “I saw you on your paper chase and came to offer my assistance. It’s an unexpected pleasure to see you again so soon. Not thinking of joining the order, are you?” It was a lame joke and the delivery suffered from his oddly formal diction, but still, he was trying to be pleasant.

  I smiled. “No, I’m pretty sure I’m not Catherines’ material, Mr. Palmer. I just had an appointment with Sister Julianna.” I dropped the note in my purse.

  “About your sister again?”

  I nodded.

  “Was she able to help you?”

  “Not really. But I wonder if you might be able to. Sister Margaret just told me that you spent a little time with Lacey the day she disappeared.”

  He frowned in thought for a second, then his brow cleared.

  “Yes, of course. That was the day one of the new students precipitated an incident in the reception area. I do remember now. I brought your sister into my office until things calmed down.” His slight drawl was very comforting to listen to. He smiled.

  “Would you like to come to my office for a cup of coffee, Leah? If I may call you Leah? And you must call me Reid. I have a special French roast I think you’d like.”

  “Sure, that would be nice.” As we walked I asked him, “Why do you have an office in the administration center? I thought you were a lawyer or investor or something like that.”

  He smiled. “Something like that is quite right. I am a lawyer, but it’s been years since I practiced. I have been fortunate in my life to have the means to indulge myself by doing things I enjoy. One of those things is helping DeMoss and the students here.”

  Sister Margaret looked up as we walked back in, but she was on the phone and just nodded.

  His office was large and well proportioned. It included built-in bookshelves holding equal parts books and things that looked a little too classy to be called knickknacks. I sat down at a small round table while he went to a credenza behind his glass-topped desk. He poured water from a carafe into a high tech coffee maker. While he searched out his French roast, I got up to look closer at a pencil sketch matted in gray and resting on a miniature silver easel on his bookshelf.

  The drawing featured a kneeling boy offering water to an eagle. The artist had used hatching, shading and shadows to give depth and life to the sketch. The child’s body looked smooth and supple, and the eagle feathers were so detailed the bird looked three-dimensional.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes. Who’s the artist?”

  “Thank you.” It took me a second to get the implication. “You?”

  He nodded. “I do a little sketching. Purely for stress relief.”

  “It’s amazing. It looks…Greek?”

  “Very good. It’s actually a drawing of a sculpture in the Thorvaldsen Museum in Copenhagen. It depicts a scene from Greek mythology. The boy Ganymede offering water to Zeus, who has appeared to him in the form of an eagle. I made the sketch some time ago on a trip to Denmark. I have a copy of the sculpture in the gardens at my summer home.”

  “Did you make that too?”

  “No,” he said as he handed me coffee in a gold-rimmed china cup with saucer. “I’m afraid my artistic talents end with a little pencil scratching on paper. I commissioned a sculptor to make the piece for my garden. You can see it if you look closely in that picture,” he said, pointing to a large photograph on the wall opposite his desk. “That’s Highview. My summer home. I host an outing there every year for DeMoss students and staff. Perhaps you’d like to come this year.”

  A beautiful garden ablaze with summer blooms was in the foreground of the photo, and to the left, part of the sculpture was visible. In the background, a white two-story Greek revival mansion sat atop a hill. It looked like something out of Gone With the Wind.

  “That’s your summer home?”

  He smiled.

  “It is. A trifle ostentatious, I know, but my great-grandfather was a Southerner to his core. He grew up in Florida, but his wife, my great-grandmother DeMoss, was from Wisconsin. He fell in love with the north woods and built Highview for her as a summer place to showcase his Southern heritage. My grandfather was born there in 1910.”

  “So, it passes from one generation to the next?”

  “It has, but unfortunately I’m the last of the direct line. My wife died several years ago. We never had children. Perhaps that’s why I put so much energy into the school here.”

  “Didn’t your grandmother start DeMoss?”

  “Helped to fund it is more accurate. Yes, she spent summers in Wisconsin and went to boarding school here when the Catherines ran an academy for young ladies. She was very fond of the order. When they decided to reopen the school with its current emphasis on helping troubled children, she set up a trust to support it.”

  “Very generous.”

  “Giving back is a tradition in our family. What about you Leah, and your family? You wanted to ask me something about your sister?” He sat down and began drinking his coffee as I put my cup down.

  “What did you and Lacey talk about after you brought her to your office that day? Was she upset? Did she tell you anything?”

  “She didn’t. I tried to engage her a little. I like to talk to the students and find out something about them when I have the opportunity, but your sister was… uncommunicative. She answered all my questions with yes and no and didn’t volunteer anything. I could
see she didn’t want to talk to me. So, I just brought her a Coke and left her here while I tried to help settle things out front.”

  “Did she seem upset? Anxious? Afraid?”

  “Upset? Yes, I’d say so, but that was understandable. The scene out front was unsettling. But afraid? No. I wouldn’t have left her if I’d thought that. Why would she be?”

  I debated how much I wanted to say. But no doubt Sister Julianna would tell him everything I’d told her anyway, so I might as well. “It’s not very pretty. I’m afraid that my sister Lacey was sexually abused, and her death was a direct result of that.”

  “You think someone at DeMoss molested your sister?” He looked shocked, and I almost felt bad for upsetting his Southern gentility with my bluntness.

  “I didn’t say at DeMoss. Actually, I think it was before that.”

  “But even if that were true, how would that have led to her death?” He paused then answered his own question. “You mean because she responded to the abuse with her drinking and reckless behavior?”

  There it was again. The underlying implication that Lacey had only herself to blame for a tragic but predictable end.

  “No. I mean because someone killed her. Probably the person who abused her.”

  “Ah. To keep her from revealing the secret?” Well, bonus round to Reid Palmer the first person whose immediate reaction wasn’t, “You’re crazy, Leah.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Interesting theory, but what evidence do you have that your sister was abused?”

  I told him what I’d told Sister Julianna, but I couldn’t guess what he was thinking. His colorless eyes made him hard to read. For some reason, it felt really important that I convince him I was on the right track.

  I found myself going into detail about Sister Mattea’s note and outlining for him the inconsistencies in the police report: the fact that Lacey had confided in someone else about the abuse, and finally, that she had been seen with a young boy, a student at the school, the night she disappeared.

  “I agree with the original police assessment—she was running away. But everyone was wrong about why. She wasn’t just trying to get away from DeMoss rules and restrictions, she was trying to save herself. I think she was afraid she was in danger. And I think Sister Mattea learned something about that—I don’t know how. She died before she could tell me.”

  He had sat perfectly still while I spoke, his eyes fixed on my face and an unreadable expression on his own. When I finished, he took a sip of coffee, placed the cup down to his left, then leaned back in his chair, his arms casually crossed. I waited.

  “You’re certain the source, who told you about Lacey and about the child, is reliable? More reliable than the young woman who was her roommate and related the story of their illicit drinking party?”

  “Reasonably sure. My source isn’t exactly above reproach, but has no reason to lie, and telling me was unplanned, I think.”

  “But what reason would your sister’s roommate have to lie?”

  “Maybe she was smart enough to know that Sister Julianna was a sucker for a sinner who’d seen the light. It could be that she saw an opportunity when Lacey’s body was discovered. There wasn’t anyone to dispute her story. And it worked. She wasn’t transferred.”

  “Possible, I suppose.”

  Encouraged, I pressed. “The little boy is the kicker. I mean, why would Lacey have a little kid with her if she was going out to get wasted? She wouldn’t.”

  “That’s a valid question. Do you know who the child was?”

  “Yes. Danny Howard. Trouble is, I understand he was shipped out for bad behavior not long after Lacey left, and he ran away from there. Sister Margaret said the school wasn’t able to find him, and no one knows where he is now.”

  “Yes. Quite possibly he’s living on the streets. It happens more often than people realize. That’s why DeMoss is so vital. Unfortunately, we can’t save everyone. This Danny must have been a particularly hard case.” His pale eyes seemed to darken a little—with sadness? “What about your sister’s abuser? Do you have any idea who that might be?”

  “A few.” He waited, but I’d done enough sharing.

  “Well. I’m sure anything DeMoss could do to help, we’d be happy to.”

  “You might want to check with Sister Julianna on that. I don’t think she’s so keen on it.”

  “I’m sure she’s just concerned that the reputation of the school not be compromised. That doesn’t mean she wouldn’t want to know the truth as you find it.”

  “Maybe.” It was hard to keep the doubt out of my voice. “Reid, are you certain that Lacey spoke with Sister Julianna that day?”

  “When things calmed down, I took her from my office to Sister Julianna’s myself, so I’m fairly certain.”

  “It’s just that Sister Margaret thought that Lacey left without speaking to her.”

  “As I said, there was a great deal of commotion that afternoon. I suspect she’s just misremembering. Is it important?”

  “No, no. I’m sure you’re right.”

  I felt a twinge of disloyalty toward the little nun who had been so helpful. I stood to go, and he rose as well. Then he said something that made me take a step back.

  “Leah, if you think your sister was killed, and you believe Sister Mattea had some knowledge of that, do you also think Sister Mattea was killed?”

  “It crossed my mind. But so far, I’m the only one who even thinks Lacey’s death is suspicious. Everyone would think I’d really lost it, if I started questioning Sister Mattea’s death too,” I said, thinking of Coop’s deflating skepticism when I tentatively brought it up with him.

  “You don’t strike me as someone who seeks approval before taking action, Leah.”

  “Are you saying you think I should be linking the two deaths?”

  “No. Definitely not. I was just wondering if that’s where your thoughts were heading. On the one hand, the story you present is quite fantastical.”

  He smiled, perhaps to take the sting out of his words.

  “On the other, the inconsistencies you point out are puzzling. I’ve always been fond of puzzles.”

  “Be straight with me, Reid. You think I’m on to something. You think Lacey’s death is suspicious, don’t you? And you agree Sister Mattea knew something about it?”

  “I don’t know if you are ‘on to something,’ or not, Leah. I do believe you have a curious mind, in the best sense of the word. But as my grandmother was fond of saying, ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’ Not very original. Still, there’s a good deal of wisdom in the old sayings. Do consider that, if you’re right about your sister, pursuing this could put you in danger as well.”

  He stepped aside so I could leave, saying in clear dismissal, “Please keep me informed of your progress. Perhaps I can help at some point.”

  Fifteen

  When I walked in the front door of the Times, Courtnee was redoing her makeup. I don’t mean opening her compact and dabbing some powder on her nose. I mean sitting in front of the makeup mirror she keeps in her bottom drawer, reapplying shadow, eyeliner, and mascara. From the look of the supplies in front of her, that was only the beginning.

  As soon as she saw me, she jumped up. Not because she felt guilty about turning her cubicle into a Mary Kay consulting room, but because she had something to impart. I could tell by the light in her baby blue eyes.

  “Max wants to see you as soon as you get in. I think he’s mad,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning over the counter as I checked the spike for messages.

  Gossip is the real coin of the realm in Courtnee’s world, and she clearly felt like she was about to make a killing on the market.

  “What’s he mad about?”

  “He got a phone call from someone, and afterwhile he came out looking for you, and then he said to tell him as soon as you got back.”

  “Who called?”

  “I was on another line, wasn’t I? I think he said Rick Panther or somethin
g like that, but I had to get back to my mom, so I didn’t really listen that well. Aren’t you going to go and see Max?”

  “Yes, don’t worry about it.” I grabbed the box of baklava—Max’s favorite—that I’d picked up on impulse on my way back from the Catherines, and headed down the hall.

  Max’s office looks like Miss Havisham’s house without the decaying wedding cake. Open bags of snacks on the desk, stacks of newspapers on the floor, M&Ms (plain, not peanut) in every available container, manila file folders piled high at crazy angles, bowling trophies on dusty bookshelves, Kiwanis Club plaques on the wall, and a clock that shows the time in six different time zones. All incorrect.

  “What’s up?” I asked, moving a pile of papers off the chair in front of his desk.

  He had been tilted back in his seat, his favorite death-defying balancing act. Now he leaned forward, bringing the front casters down with a thud.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Bringing you baklava?” I smiled and held out the box, but without much hope that it would placate him. It didn’t. He set it down on top of a pile of old newspapers.

  “Leah, it’s not funny. I asked you. No, I told you. Stay away from the Catherines. Leave your crazy theory about Sister Mattea and Lacey alone. There’s no story there. Why can’t you just once do what I tell you? I’m not gonna let you cost me this paper.” A little vein on the side of his forehead had popped out and throbbed for emphasis.

  “But, Max—”

  He continued as though I hadn’t interrupted. “I talked to Reid Palmer a little while ago.”

  Of course. Rick Panther. “Oh?”

  “You know anything about that?”

  “No. Well, that is, I saw him this morning, and we had coffee, but I don’t know why he’d call.”

  “Because you’re poking around bugging the Catherines, and that’s bugging him!”