The Big Steal by Emyl Jenkins

suspicion, at least I haven’t heard any one specifically named. I’m really in the dark. But those of you who
live
around here, who know the situation …”
    Her lips made a thin line. “I just can’t
stand
being a gossip,” she said, looking toward the doorway. “Some people are saying we should keep an eye on Michelle Hendrix, but the police questioned her.” She ended her sentence on a high note, turning it into a question. “I don’t think her name has been brought up recently. The board certainly hasn’t seen any reason to let her go.” She frowned. “But why
should
she do such a thing? What would she have to gain? She’d be the first to fall under suspicion wouldn’t she, having access to the house and being free to come and go?”
    â€œAnd there’s never been a night guard?”
    â€œUsed to be, but not for a while now. We’ve been working on a terribly tight budget. That’s why the bank loan was needed to begin with. It’s like Zach says, ‘insufficient funds.’”
    â€œSo when did Wynderly’s financial trouble start?” I asked.
    â€œOh, I don’t know,” she said. “Probably sometime before we found an earlier curator with his hand in the till. Looking back, I imagine he took more than money—but we didn’t look any further. At the time the cash didn’t seem like that much of a loss. He cashed a couple of contribution checks and skimmed a little money off the top during our busy Christmas and spring garden tour seasons. But he was having some personal problems, so nobody wanted to cause a big row. Maybe we should have. It seems that things have gone downhill since then.”
    â€œWhen was all this?”
    â€œSeven, eight, maybe nine years ago?”
    â€œ
That
long? How long have you been on the board?”
    â€œThis is my fourth term. It’s more or less a lifetime appointment. Of course some people resign. Move away. Get bored. Get tired of asking for money—or
giving
money. Then again, it used to be fun when Miss Mary Sophie was giving a couple hundred thousand a year.” Peggy Powers laughed.
    That reminded me, I needed to call Miss Mary Sophie about tea this afternoon.
    â€œAnd what happened to him, the curator?” I asked.
    Peggy Powers looked shamefaced. “Nothing. You know how it is. We Southerners, particularly Virginians in
these
parts, we’re still trying to act like our English ancestors—with stiff upper lips. We go along pretending everything is just fine. We’d
never
let on we’re responsible for any indiscretions that one of us makes under the other’s watch. We knew we were to blame, but we kept quiet. That was the honorable thing to do. What difference did it make? Dr. Landerley found anotherposition right away. Oh, dear.” Her hand flew to her mouth so fast I thought she was swatting a fly. “I do hope you don’t know him.”
    I let her comment pass, but remembered what Worth Merritt had said the night before when I mentioned that something untoward might eventually happen to Wynderly. “I don’t think that’s a worry, Sterling,” he had said. How like Virginians to turn their heads the other way or, ostrich-like, to bury their heads in the sand as if nothing had happened.
    â€œBut didn’t he have to have letters of recommendation to get the other position?” I asked.
    â€œI said, we did the honorable thing,” Peggy Powers replied. “We kept quiet. We had trusted him. Landerley had been a guest in our homes. He had become one of us.”
    Strange that she mentioned his name a second time after the dramatics of a moment ago, I thought.
    â€œNow we’re talking about it,” she said, “I realize how much the board has, well, gone down over the years.”
    â€œGone down?”
    â€œOnce all the really fine people were on the board. The ones with money