Cold Case by Linda Barnes Page B

seem to matter.
    â€œThea Janis. Dorothy Cameron. Either name ring a bell? Was she a classmate of yours?”
    Silence.
    â€œWould you mind coming over?” he asked very softly.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œIt seems odd that Thea should be of such interest after all these years.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI’d prefer to discuss the matter in person.”
    â€œI can be there in ten minutes,” I said. Chatting with Anthony Emerson might make me feel as if I’d done something to earn the cash Mayhew’d left behind.
    â€œCome to the school,” he said hurriedly. “Not the house.”

12
    More folks than usual strolled the late night streets, seeking relief from the heat, wearing minimal clothing, several—probably on the way home from Steve’s in the Square—licking ice cream cones. Mooney’s warning had made me extraordinarily conscious of passersby. I watched. I listened. I cataloged their attire. No footsteps seemed to dog my own. At a quick march, I made it to Avon Hill in seven minutes.
    The porch light was off. I didn’t get a chance to bang the huge brass knocker. The door opened, eerie creak and all, as soon as I lifted my foot to the first step.
    â€œMiss Carlyle?” He’d been waiting.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo you have no students to place with us?” he said, his mouth twisting in a rueful grin.
    â€œIf I did, they’d need full scholarships.”
    He shook his head regretfully while I wondered if the school rested on firm financial ground.
    â€œHave you a license?” he asked, still blocking the doorway. “Any document that would assure me that you really are an investigator?”
    I gave a sigh. “Look, you invited me over to talk, Mr. Emerson. I had my exercise. I can make it a quick round-trip.”
    He hesitated only briefly.
    â€œPlease,” he said. “Come in.”
    He was a slender man, hiding inside a well-tailored suit too heavy for the heat. His hair, a sleek blond pelt, was so fine that, despite attempts at a ruler-straight part, strands escaped every which way. His long, beaky nose looked like it might twitch at any moment. I’d expected his eyes to be cool blue, but they were brown, dark and deep, nestled in creased pouches that made him older than he appeared.
    He’d be thirty-nine if he’d been Thea’s classmate.
    We walked down the ill-lit trophy corridor toward a room I took to be his office. Large, imposing mahogany desk with matching bookshelves. Persian rugs in reds, oranges, and browns, a leather sofa. Walls hung with gilt-framed diplomas. An airy sanctum in which to greet parents willing to drop large sums in exchange for the cachet of saying, “Yes, our daughter is at Avon Hill. Yours?” Knowing Avon Hill could be equaled but not one-upped.
    Perhaps the headmaster kept a more casual workroom elsewhere. This office would do nicely for cadging checks from parents. And for discipline. Scare a kid to death in here. Afraid he’d knock over a vase.
    One book sat on the desktop. A yearbook, an elaborate endeavor in a tooled leather binding. A gold satin ribbon marked one of the middle pages.
    I showed Emerson my investigator’s license. As if offering an even exchange, he asked if I’d like to see Thea’s picture.
    â€œSure.”
    He waved me toward a plush armchair. “She wasn’t the sort who did clubs and sports and rah-rah events. But someone shot a candid. Here. You can see her profile.”
    The gold ribbon marked the yearbook page. The snap showed little in the way of facial delineation. Thea’s breasts jutted assertively. At fourteen, fifteen, she’d had a woman’s body, a woman’s stance.
    â€œIs this the only photo of her in the whole yearbook?”
    â€œYes,” he said, a bit defensively. “Like I said, she wasn’t into clubs, and she never showed for her homeroom picture. It’s not as though