I hung on his every word. “Did he? Keep his distance?”
“He didn’t listen to me, of course. The next thing we knew, the police were at his door, the girl was traumatized, and Marlette was branded as a sexual predator.” He looked up at me, his eyes glistening. “Every professor’s nightmare. The camp fired him. The university revoked his tenure, and we never heard from him again.”
This account matched the story in the tattered article I’d found in the barn birdhouse as well as what my reporter friend had told me. I felt queasy as I was once again faced with the possibility that Marlette had committed a violent crime against an innocent youth. “Do you know who the girl was?”
He shook his head. “We never were privy to the details. She was a minor, after all. Even Marlette wouldn’t reveal her identity. But I know he was innocent. He would not have done anything inappropriate. Couldn’t have. It just wasn’t in his nature.”
The professor’s confidence eased my disquiet somewhat. This man’s opinion matched that of my mentor, Jan Vance, as well as my own initial impression of Marlette. We believed in his innocence. We believed that he was too kindhearted and good to have caused harm to a helpless teenage girl.
I touched Professor Walters’s arm. “You were his friend, weren’t you—not just a colleague?”
He nodded. “The last thing we talked about before everything went wrong was his book. He was writing a suspense thriller or some such thing. I guess he lost the impetus for that, too.”
My heart skipped in anticipation at this hint about Marlette’s query. “I’ll keep looking into it, Professor. Maybe we’ll discover that he did finish his novel.”
Slowly, Walters got to his feet. “And now I must go home. Can I keep your card?” He held it up. “In case I think of anything else?”
“Yes, but wait. My phone number has changed.” I took back the card and crossed out the Dunston Herald number, writing my cell phone number beneath it. I didn’t want him to call my old place of work and find out I’d been fired. Returning it to him, I said, “And thank you so much for your time. I’ll let you know if I learn anything important about your friend.”
He shuffled out the door with much less energy than when he’d entered. I hoped that my questions hadn’t burdened him with the weight of bad memories.
Reflecting on the conversation on my way out to the truck, I felt disappointed that I hadn’t really found out any new information. Other than the snippet about Marlette’s novel, of course. At least I now knew the genre. And it felt good to hear that other people believed in Marlette’s innocence. Maybe it had been worthwhile to sit through the Shakespeare lecture after all!
I saw that my mother was in the driver’s seat, so I climbed into the passenger side of the turquoise truck. My mother’s head was pressed against the steering wheel, and from the steady rise and fall of her chest I could tell that she was fast asleep.
The dim light from the streetlamp shone on a book propped open on her lap. I slid it free and realized it was the flower book I’d purchased at the Secret Garden. Marlette’s sketch with the dried flower slipped out from between the pages, and I placed it on the dashboard before scrutinizing the open page.
In vivid white, yellow, and green was a photo of the flower from Marlette’s sketch. I had looked at that drawing so often, the flower was etched in my mind, but I glanced at the sketch on the dashboard just to be sure. Large white petals with a round cluster of yellow stamen at the center—an exact replica.
I pressed the overhead light, and my mother stirred beneath its soft glow. Stretching, she yawned loudly. “I was just gettin’ lost in a lovely dream involvin’ Robert Redford and a large chocolate cake,” she scolded as she turned the key in the ignition. “And don’t worry, I’m not drinkin’ and drivin’. That damn flask was empty.”
Turning back to the book, I read the caption: Paeonia lactiflora (Luella Shaylor Peony). My fingers started to tremble at the significance of this discovery. The flower from Marlette’s diary had betrayed a secret. It had given away the name under which Sue Ann was now living.
My mother looked over her shoulder as she reversed the truck. She then paused before shifting gears in order to turn off the overhead light. In the darkness of the cab she murmured, “This is quite a pickle you’re in, darlin’. Sue Ann’s your coworker.”
“Yes,” I said in stunned agreement. “Sue Ann is Luella Ardor.”
Chapter 11