I felt a tingle of excitement. Sometimes, answers come out of thin air. “I’m still trying to figure out what happened to him. What was it you remembered?” I leaned closer to the counter.
Big Ed pointed outside. “See those birdhouses attached to the tops of the fence posts at the side of the grocery store?”
I craned my neck to look. Sure enough, there was a fence along the side of How Green Was My Valley, painted with a mural of a farm scene. Rolling hills, patchwork fields, cows, corn stalks. And, equally spaced, atop each fence post was a birdhouse shaped like a little red barn. There were six of them in total.
“Those are so cute.” I turned back to Big Ed. “What do they have to do with Marlette?” As soon as I asked the question, I remembered the purple martin houses in the park and the birdhouse to which Iris had brought me on Saturday.
“He was always poking around in those birdhouses. I saw him stick stuff in them at times, too. Maybe he left something inside them. A clue.” Eyeing the cheesesteak meat on the grill, he quickly added, “It may be that I just watch too many detective shows on TV and there’s nothing to be found in those little houses, but you never know.”
I couldn’t wait to find out. Hurriedly, I thanked him and, holding tightly to my lunch, ran across the street.
The first three tiny barns held nothing except bits of twigs and grass. But when I reached my fingers into the hole of the fourth one, they brushed against something that felt like paper. Carefully, I pinched my fingers together until they caught the edge of the paper and eased it out of the hole.
What I held in my hand was a ragged, yellowed newspaper clipping. Pieces were torn from it—chewed off, it looked like—and in a few spots the ink was smudged. But I could make out the year, 1985, and the byline, Jan Vance. I knew Jan! She’d been a reporter at the Dunston Herald and my mentor when I first began my career as a journalist.
I smoothed out the shredded bit of paper as best I could and began reading. The account was disjointed because of all the holes and ink smears, but I could make out the gist of the story.
Parents of Woodside Creative Camp are up in arms in response to allegations of sexual…Marlette Robbins is a tenured professor at Crabtree University…a fifteen-year-old and…a man in his position entrusted with young…Professor Robbins denied the accusations, saying the young woman…Woodside fired Robbins and the university is…Charges have not been filed.
Wow. Marlette had been accused of demonstrating inappropriate conduct toward a fifteen-year-old girl at a summer camp? The idea shocked me. He’d seemed like such a gentle, unaggressive soul. Still, charges weren’t filed, so maybe there was more to the story. At least now I had a last name for him. And a former profession. But clearly, I didn’t have enough facts to understand everything about what had happened. I needed to talk to Jan Vance. As soon as I got back to the office, I planned to give her a call.
The aroma of curry teased my nostrils, and I suddenly remembered my lunch. Leaning against the fence, I bit into the naan wrap. It was scrumptious. The spicy curry, blending with the tartness of the mango and crunchiness of the nuts, was heavenly.
After swallowing my last bite, I tossed the trash into the bin, and then, just to be sure, I checked the last two birdhouses. They contained nothing, so I rushed back to the office.
Dialing Jan’s number, I composed questions in my mind. My eyes traveled to the pile of queries on my desk. I had to admit that at the moment I felt more like an investigative reporter than a literary agent. Guilt at not focusing on my work started worming its way into my conscience, but before it gripped too tightly, my old mentor answered the phone.
“Jan Vance.” Her voice barked through the receiver, conjuring up her no-nonsense personality as if she were in the room beside me.
“Hi, Jan. It’s Lila Wilkins.”
“Lila! Good to hear from you, girl.” She laughed, her hoarse voice a result of years of chain-smoking.
“How’s retirement? Finished your book yet?” When Jan retired a few years ago, she’d announced she was going to write a novel based on her experiences as a reporter. I hoped I’d get to read it one day.
“The book’s coming along, slowly but surely. What are you up to these days? I heard the Herald is making do without your talents.”
“That’s true, but I found a new job pretty quickly at the Novel Idea Literary Agency.”
“No kidding! Are you cold-calling for clients?”
I didn’t know whether she was teasing or not. “Actually, no. Did you hear about the homeless man who was found murdered in our office? Marlette Robbins?”
“That was Marlette Robbins? I did a piece on him years ago, you know.”