overlooked him, but there he was, at the end of the ellipse, shoulders rounded as he transferred returned books from a deep bin to a pushcart.
He’d filled out some since the days chronicled in the yearbook I’d studied. Apparently, he’d traded in his argyle sweater vests, too. Now he wore a crisp white shirt and a smart tweed jacket complete with suede elbow patches. A satiny wine-red handkerchief peeped from the jacket’s breast pocket. The look was savvy and sophisticated—and a far cry from the fashion choices the other local men at the Apple Blossom Café made.
“Excuse me,” I whispered, though my voice still seemed to boom in the library’s quiet. “You’re Calvin Mead, aren’t you?”
The librarian abandoned his books, smiled at me as he ran a hand through his unruly auburn hair. “Guilty as charged. Do we know each other?”
“No. But I met your sister, Charlotte, this morning.”
“Ah, you must be Jamie, Adam Barrett’s friend.”
Friend seemed to be an overstatement at the moment, but I didn’t want to go into all that.
“Actually,” I told him, “I’m a private investigator.”
“Really? Char didn’t mention that.” He smiled again. “You see, news travels fast in Fallowfield, especially when it comes to strangers.”
Being the stranger in question, I didn’t like that fact at all. But I was determined to make the most of it. “I’m interested in news. Old news, to be precise. Do you have back copies of the Examiner on microfilm?”
“No, there’s no room in our budget for that. We’ve kept actual copies of the paper, though, since 1833. They’re in the basement. I’ll show you.”
I followed Calvin down a set of sweeping marble steps, across the deserted children’s area, and through a door marked STAFF ONLY . Behind it was a long, skinny room built of concrete and claustrophobia. Cardboard file box after cardboard file box gathered dust on industrial-gray shelves the length and breadth of the place. My guide led me to one shelf in particular, grabbed a box positioned high above my head, and pulled it down for me. The dates on the end of it corresponded perfectly to the year Pamela had been attacked and died.
“You’ll find everything you want to know in here,” Calvin said, “and then some.”
I swallowed hard, afraid he might be right. “How do you know I want the information in this box?”
“Because,” he said, not unkindly, “you’re Adam’s friend.”
The librarian left me alone then, with old newspapers and the past.
I lifted the top from the container, was met by the acrid scent of harsh ink and stale newsprint. If the Fallowfield Public Library didn’t come up with the funds to preserve these papers on microfilm soon, they and every word on their broad pages would be lost to time and chemistry. But as I sifted through edition after edition, I began to believe that that might be a good thing.
The papers were arranged in chronological order. And since Pamela had died in the spring, it didn’t take me long to find the first disturbing headline. Much too soon, there it was, on the front page of the April 9 issue.
Local Girl Sexually Assaulted
At 7:23 A.M. , sheriff’s deputies responded to a call at a location off Hawthorn Road, where a teenage boy reported finding his younger sister in the creek bed bordering Barrett Orchards and the farm of Marty Wentz. The girl had sustained numerous abrasions and contusions. Her nightgown had been removed from her and has not been recovered. She was transported to Fallowfield Memorial Hospital, where she was treated and released. Sheriff Bowker states his investigation is ongoing.
Pamela Wentz hadn’t been named as the victim, of course—at least, not in this initial report. But the rest of the facts were there. And despite the dispassionate language the reporter had used, my stomach ached as I read them.
But Pamela’s name wasn’t withheld forever. Three days later, on April 12, the Examiner
He’d filled out some since the days chronicled in the yearbook I’d studied. Apparently, he’d traded in his argyle sweater vests, too. Now he wore a crisp white shirt and a smart tweed jacket complete with suede elbow patches. A satiny wine-red handkerchief peeped from the jacket’s breast pocket. The look was savvy and sophisticated—and a far cry from the fashion choices the other local men at the Apple Blossom Café made.
“Excuse me,” I whispered, though my voice still seemed to boom in the library’s quiet. “You’re Calvin Mead, aren’t you?”
The librarian abandoned his books, smiled at me as he ran a hand through his unruly auburn hair. “Guilty as charged. Do we know each other?”
“No. But I met your sister, Charlotte, this morning.”
“Ah, you must be Jamie, Adam Barrett’s friend.”
Friend seemed to be an overstatement at the moment, but I didn’t want to go into all that.
“Actually,” I told him, “I’m a private investigator.”
“Really? Char didn’t mention that.” He smiled again. “You see, news travels fast in Fallowfield, especially when it comes to strangers.”
Being the stranger in question, I didn’t like that fact at all. But I was determined to make the most of it. “I’m interested in news. Old news, to be precise. Do you have back copies of the Examiner on microfilm?”
“No, there’s no room in our budget for that. We’ve kept actual copies of the paper, though, since 1833. They’re in the basement. I’ll show you.”
I followed Calvin down a set of sweeping marble steps, across the deserted children’s area, and through a door marked STAFF ONLY . Behind it was a long, skinny room built of concrete and claustrophobia. Cardboard file box after cardboard file box gathered dust on industrial-gray shelves the length and breadth of the place. My guide led me to one shelf in particular, grabbed a box positioned high above my head, and pulled it down for me. The dates on the end of it corresponded perfectly to the year Pamela had been attacked and died.
“You’ll find everything you want to know in here,” Calvin said, “and then some.”
I swallowed hard, afraid he might be right. “How do you know I want the information in this box?”
“Because,” he said, not unkindly, “you’re Adam’s friend.”
The librarian left me alone then, with old newspapers and the past.
I lifted the top from the container, was met by the acrid scent of harsh ink and stale newsprint. If the Fallowfield Public Library didn’t come up with the funds to preserve these papers on microfilm soon, they and every word on their broad pages would be lost to time and chemistry. But as I sifted through edition after edition, I began to believe that that might be a good thing.
The papers were arranged in chronological order. And since Pamela had died in the spring, it didn’t take me long to find the first disturbing headline. Much too soon, there it was, on the front page of the April 9 issue.
Local Girl Sexually Assaulted
At 7:23 A.M. , sheriff’s deputies responded to a call at a location off Hawthorn Road, where a teenage boy reported finding his younger sister in the creek bed bordering Barrett Orchards and the farm of Marty Wentz. The girl had sustained numerous abrasions and contusions. Her nightgown had been removed from her and has not been recovered. She was transported to Fallowfield Memorial Hospital, where she was treated and released. Sheriff Bowker states his investigation is ongoing.
Pamela Wentz hadn’t been named as the victim, of course—at least, not in this initial report. But the rest of the facts were there. And despite the dispassionate language the reporter had used, my stomach ached as I read them.
But Pamela’s name wasn’t withheld forever. Three days later, on April 12, the Examiner
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