“That’s very thoughtful of you, Myra May.” Miss Rogers wrote some numbers on a slip of paper and added them up. “Here’s the fine and a list of the penalties. I doubt if she’ll pay it—she is such a negative individual. But of course it’s worth a try.” She handed the paper to Myra May. “Why are you asking about her?”
“Because,” Myra May said, and told Miss Rogers that Alice Ann was accused of embezzlement. While some of the Dahlias were thinking of possible suspects, Imogene Rutledge’s name had come up and Aunt Hetty Little had suggested that Miss Rogers might know something.
Miss Rogers sniffed. “Well, what I know,” she said tartly, “is that Imogene Rutledge has a very sharp tongue and doesn’t mind using it. And in addition to not paying her fine, she stole a book. Took it right off the shelf in the other room.”
“Stole a book!” Myra May exclaimed. “Oh, my goodness!” She was shocked by the theft, of course, but even more shocked that Miss Rutledge had dared to take the book out from under Miss Rogers’ nose. “How did she manage to—”
“Simply put it in her bag and walked out the door with it,” Miss Rogers said darkly, and it was clear from her expression that this was an exceptionally malevolent transgression. “I missed it immediately, of course, for I had seen it on the shelf not a half hour earlier. It happened to have been a personal favorite of mine—a book that everyone in Darling enjoyed reading and rereading.
Further Chronicles of Avonlea,
by Maud Montgomery.”
“I see,” Myra May said, thinking that somebody who was bold enough to walk past Miss Rogers with a stolen book—and one of the Anne of Green Gables series, at that—was bold enough to embezzle. “Is there anything else that might point to ...” She hesitated. “Well, to Miss Rutledge being involved in shenanigans at the bank?”
“You mean, anything in addition to that brand-new car and the house she bought for her mother in Monroeville?” Miss Rogers’ tone was acid.
“She bought a house?” Myra May asked, surprised.
“She certainly did. Quite a large one, too. New, from what I heard. Must’ve cost a great deal of money. Of course, I have no information about what might or might not have happened at the bank, and whether the car and the house have anything to do with that. I suppose she might have made her little bundle in the market, before the Crash.”
Miss Rogers pressed her lips together, turning her head, and Myra May knew that she was thinking of the money she herself had foolishly invested in stocks and the little cottage she had hoped to buy with all that money she was going to make in the market. No wonder she was angry at Miss Rutledge, who had committed three terrible sins. She had not paid a fine, she had stolen a book, and she still had plenty of money, when Miss Rogers had lost every penny of hers.
Myra May had thought about this all afternoon, while she was working. She had even gone so far as to call the operator in Monroeville and get Miss Rutledge’s telephone number and street address. So when Verna suggested that they split up to do their investigating, she had been glad to volunteer to talk to Miss Rutledge.
The Rutledge house, it turned out, was indeed quite large, although it was by no means new. In fact, it was old and in urgent need of repair. But there were pots of red geraniums on the front porch, red and green chintz cushions on the porch swing, and a small brass plate beside the front door, engraved with the words RUTLEDGE’S RESIDENCE FOR GENTEEL LADIES.
Miss Rutledge herself answered the door. In her fifties, she was erect and firm-featured, with a braided coronet of still-dark hair. She wore a gray skirt and tailored white blouse with a dark, mannish tie. “Yes?” she asked pleasantly. “May I help you?”
Myra May introduced herself and said, in a deeply apologetic tone, “Actually, I’m here at the request of Miss Rogers, at the Darling Library. I hope I’m not offending you, but I mentioned that I was coming to Monroeville and Miss Rogers asked me to stop in and remind you about the library fine.”
Miss Rutledge rolled her eyes. “Oh, for pity’s sake,” she said. “Dorothy Rogers. She’d rather send somebody than spend two cents on a stamp. Such a parsimonious old dragon!”
Myra May gave a little laugh. Clearly, Miss Rutledge’s reputation as a woman who spoke her mind was well earned. She herself liked Miss Rogers, but the librarian was strict and she made sure that everyone obeyed her rules to the letter, whether the rules made sense or not. Lots of people would probably agree that she was a dragon—and parsimonious to boot.
“Forty cents!” Miss Rutledge heaved a sigh. “Well, that’s what I get for forgetting. Since you’re here, I suppose I might as well pay up, so Dorothy can scratch my name out of her little black book. Come into my office, and I’ll get the money for you.”
Somewhat surprised that collecting was going to be so easy, Myra May followed Miss Rutledge into the hallway. An older woman, obviously quite genteel, sat in the parlor, embroidering what looked like a napkin. Another, equally genteel, was reading aloud to her while she worked. A fat spaniel lay at their feet, snoring.
“The Bigood sisters,” Miss Rutledge whispered. “My first residents. There are two others, but they’re napping right now, as is my mother.” She gave what sounded like a snicker. “Genteel old ladies nap quite a lot, it turns out.”
Myra May found herself liking this woman. She was leading the way into a room behind the parlor, just large enough for a neat little writing desk and chair, a wooden filing cabinet, a bookshelf, and a straight chair. On the wall over the writing desk hung a plaque from the Monroeville Chamber of Commerce, welcoming Rutledge’s Residence for Genteel Ladies to the roster of outstanding Monroeville businesses, and a large framed photograph of Miss Rutledge and an older woman (who must be her mother, Myra May thought) cutting a ribbon across the front porch. There was another photograph, too: Miss Rutledge high on a ladder with a brush and a bucket, painting the shutters on a second-story window.
Miss Rutledge followed her glance to the plaque and the photographs. “It’s not exactly a genteel life for me,” she said wryly. “Managing Mama and the rest of these old ladies takes just about all my strength. My patience, too. Sometimes I tell them if they don’t behave, I’m going to run away and join the circus.” She shuddered. “But it’s better than the bank, I’ll tell you. Mr. Johnson was never an easy man to work for, and when the money situation got worse, he got to be a real bear.”
“When the Crash happened, you mean?”
“No. Before. That bank has a problem. There are a couple of unsecured loans to Mrs. Johnson’s father and brother. Loans that Mr. Johnson should never have made. I told him he’d be in trouble the next time the bank examiner came,” she added crisply. “At which point he tried to fire me for sassing him.” She straightened her shoulders. “But I quit first. Told him what he could do with his old job.”
“Then you bought this place?” Myra May asked.
Miss Rutledge nodded. “Mama sold her house and I had made a little money in the market.” She smiled crookedly. “I didn’t make much, but I was lucky to get it out before everything came crashing down in October. Mama and I pooled what we had and bought this house. I took my savings out of the bank and bought a car, too—although maybe I shouldn’t have. We could have used that money to get the roof fixed.” She opened a drawer and began to hunt. “I don’t have forty cents here. I’ll look in my purse.” She left the room.
Myra May glanced around the room. She had already begun to revise her opinion of Imogene Rutledge. She liked her frankness and her independent spirit and felt she was not at all the stealthy, conniving person Miss Rogers had pictured. Maybe the librarian was jealous of what she imagined to be Miss Rutledge’s freedom, not to mention her success in the stock market.
The bookshelf was right by her elbow and Myra May began idly to browse the titles on the spines. There were several of Mary Roberts Rinehart’s mysteries, a book on gardening, and another on dressmaking, along with several
Ladies’ Home Journals
and—
Myra May pulled in her breath. And
Further Chronicles of Avonlea
, by Maud Montgomery.
She leaned forward and took the book off the shelf and opened it. It was clearly stamped
Darling Public Library
and had one of those little envelopes glued to the inside back, with a library check-out card in it, the kind where you write your name and the due date and give it to the librarian for filing in her calendar file so she’ll know when the book is overdue and she can start charging you with the fine.
But this one wasn’t overdue. It was stolen. Miss Rogers might have given the wrong impression about Miss Rutledge in some ways, but she had her story straight about this. Myra May frowned. Somebody who stooped so low as to steal a book from a public library might not balk at stealing money from the bank—especially when she thought it was badly managed.
Myra May was still holding the book when Miss Rutledge came back into the room and put three dimes and two nickels on the desk—and saw what Myra May was looking at.
“You’re a fan of Maud Montgomery?” she asked, smiling pleasantly. “I loved all the Green Gables books—so delightful to watch Anne grow up in those wonderful stories.” She sighed. “It’s such a shame about that one.”
“Really?” Myra May turned it over in her hands, now very curious. “What’s wrong with it?”
“The publisher put it out without Miss Montgomery’s permission,” Miss Rutledge replied. “The book has stories in it that the author decided she didn’t want published, so she’s suing.”
“Suing?” Somehow, Myra May had never thought that an author might actually sue a publisher. It was a new idea to her.
“Yes. The case is still in the courts. That’s why I took the book back.” When Myra May frowned, she added, “I donated it to the library when it was first published, you see. That was back in 1920 or ’21. Last year, I learned that the stories were published without permission. So I told Miss Rogers that I thought the book should be withdrawn from the library—at least until the lawsuit was resolved.”
“Ah,” Myra May said, beginning to understand.
Miss Rutledge chuckled. “Of course, she didn’t agree. She never agreed with me, no matter what. We argued about it several times, and when I saw she wasn’t going to give in, I took it back. Since I donated the book in the first place, I felt perfectly justified.” Miss Rutledge gave a rueful smile. “Poor Miss Rogers. I don’t think she has ever forgiven me.”
“I think you’re right,” Myra May murmured, and replaced the book on the shelf.
Miss Rutledge scooped the coins off the desk and handed them to Myra May. “You’d better give me a receipt. Just in case Miss Rogers forgets to cross me out of her little black book.” She found a scrap of paper and wrote
Rcvd of Imogene Rutledge 40¢ for library fine
, and handed it to Myra May.
Myra May signed and dated the receipt and gave it back. “I wonder,” she said, pocketing the coins. “If I told you that Alice Ann Walker was suspected of embezzling money from the bank, what would you say?”
“I’d say that’s crazy, that’s what I’d say!” Miss Rutledge hooted. “Alice Ann is as honest as the day is long. And I’d tell whoever ‘suspects’ her to look a little higher up in that bank. At the man at the top. The man who made those bad loans and thinks he can move money around to cover up the losses.”
Myra May gave her a straight look. “There’s a bank examiner in town right now. Would you be willing to tell him what you know about those loans?”
A smile spread across her face. “Would I be willing to tell? You bet I would. Any day of the week.” She eyed Myra May. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
Myra May told her.
Lizzy’s experience as a
Dispatch
reporter was mostly confined to the Darling Flower Show and the Peach Festival that took place at the Cypress County Fairgrounds every year. In addition, Charlie always had her cover the Watermelon Roll and the Tomato Fest and the Garden Tour—and of course, there was her weekly column. But Dr. Harper didn’t need to know that she mostly wrote garden pieces.
Now Lizzy stood on the street in front of the dental office, with its sign: DR. A.V. HARPER, D.D.S., GENERAL DENTISTRY. There was a light inside, and a man—a patient, she thought—had just come out, slamming the door behind him and jamming his hat on his head with a pained expression. It was late in the day, but Dr. Harper must still be there. She checked to be sure that she had her notebook in her purse, took a deep breath, opened the door, and went inside.
The room was small, with only a couple of straight chairs for people who were waiting to see the dentist and an empty receptionist’s desk with a chair behind it, a small vase of wilted flowers on one corner. A man wearing a white coat came through a door in the back and into the waiting room. He was in his forties, thin-faced and slightly balding, with gold-rimmed glasses perched at the end of his nose and a droopy dark moustache on his upper lip. Behind his glasses, his eyes had a red-rimmed, squinty look, as if he had been rubbing them.
“We’re closing now, miss.” His voice was oddly high-pitched. “Miss Thomas, my receptionist, has gone home for the day. Please come back tomorrow. Or you can leave your number, and Miss Thomas will call you.”
“Oh, thank you, Dr. Harper,” Lizzy said breathlessly. “But I’m not here to make an appointment. My name is Elizabeth Lacy. I’m from the
Dispatch
, over in Darling, and Mr. Dickens—Charlie Dickens, he’s our editor—sent me to see you.”
This was a lie, of course, but Lizzy thought it was justified, under the circumstances. Anyway, she could write up something from the interview and give it to Charlie. He might find a way to use it.
“Oh, he did?” Dr. Harper asked, raising his eyebrows. “About what?”
“He wants to run a human-interest story about what happened on Saturday night. About your car being stolen, I mean, and that poor young girl dying in it. Would you have a few minutes to talk to me?”