The Vanishing Stair (Truly Devious #2)(34)

The coach let everyone off on Church Street, which was the main shopping street. Stevie walked down toward the waterfront, taking in the houses and shops and the general scenery. Ellie could have snuck off to any one of these houses or lofts. She could be hiding away, looking down at Stevie now from a window.

But was it so easy to stay concealed in a place like this? Ellie would have to go out eventually, and Burlington wasn’t so large. If she had come here, she’d probably gone on, maybe taken someone’s car. Maybe she had headed west, to the desert, or California. Maybe she went up into Canada. That would be a quick and easy way of getting away from the American police. Maybe she had gone to New York or Boston, where it would be easy to hide.

But staying hidden forever was hard. Running was hard. You needed money. You needed ID and a phone. And it was hard to hide from cameras. They were everywhere. At traffic lights, at ATMs, on streets.

So maybe she was still here somewhere, tucked up in one of these hippie studios.

Stevie shook off her deliberations and continued down to the waterfront to the Skinny Pancake. There was a cold wind whipping off Lake Champlain that morning. It snapped in Stevie’s face, making her eyes tear up. The view was stunning, what she could see of it through the tears—a smeared expanse of beautiful water, glorious fall trees bordering the other side. This was where Albert Ellingham sailed away on his final day, from the local yacht club. His boat had blown up upriver a bit—a victim, it was thought, of anarchists who wanted to get revenge for the death of Anton Vorachek, the man arrested for the murder of his wife and the kidnapping of his daughter. The anarchists had come for Ellingham before; this time, they seemed to have gotten him. And it was just up the shoreline a bit, in a place called Rock Point, where Albert Ellingham and George Marsh had lowered the marked bills down to a boat.

The Skinny Pancake was a large, very low-key place with a hippie vibe, a giant menu of coffees and crepes. Stevie was still in a big mood, money-wise, and ordered a large turmeric cappuccino. Might as well look fancy when you’re meeting a professor for the first time.

“Hey, Fenton,” the guy behind the counter said. “Usual?”

A woman of indeterminate age had entered the restaurant. She had a head of corkscrew curls, an equal mix of black and gray, which came to her shoulders. She wore glasses with thick, red frames. She was wearing a bulky purple sweater and a waterproof coat, brown corduroy, and clogs that made a clear, heavy thump on the wooden floor. She had a beat-as-all-hell leather satchel slung across her body.

Stevie recognized her a bit from the author photo, although she had been maybe twenty years younger in it. There was something more . . . haphazard about the person in front of her.

They looked at each other in a moment of mutual recognition.

“Are you Stevie?” she called.

Stevie nodded.

“Put our coffees together,” she said to the person behind the counter. “She’s with me.” Then, to Stevie, “You mind if we sit outside?”

Stevie wanted to point out that it was October. In Vermont. On a lake. Dr. Fenton plucked a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and waggled them.

“Can’t smoke in here,” she said, pointing at the door.

Stevie wound her scarf once more around her neck and followed. Dr. Fenton sat down at one of the tables by the door, seemingly unaffected by the wind chopping at them. She pulled a cigarette from the pack of Camels and cupped her hands over her mouth to light it. Stevie didn’t know anyone who smoked. Dr. Fenton seemed to pick up on this.

“Used to be you could smoke anywhere,” she said. “You’re probably not used to it. They treat us like pariahs.”

She took a long drag, followed by a longer exhale.

“So. I understand that your interest at Ellingham is the Ellingham case. And that you had something to do with figuring out what happened to that kid, Mayes.”

“Hayes,” Stevie said, tucking her arms inside her red coat to conserve warmth.

“Hayes.” Dr. Fenton let out a long plume of smoke, most of which was blown back in her face. “Sorry. You’ve read my book?”

“Of course,” Stevie said.

“Of course!” Dr. Fenton laughed and coughed at the same time. “I like that. Of course. Also, call me Fenton. No ‘Doctor.’ Just Fenton. It’s how I like it. Let’s talk about the Ellingham case. Tell me what else you’ve read.”

“What?” Stevie said. “All of it?”

“All the books, what articles, give me a sense of what you know.”

“I know . . . all of it?” Stevie said.

“We’re here to talk,” she said. “Talk. Tell me about this case.”

Asking someone to just talk about the Ellingham case was like asking someone to “just talk” about the past or “just talk” about science.

“Starting when?” Stevie said. “Night of, or days leading up to, or . . .”

“Night of,” Dr. Fenton said, the cigarette gripped between her lips.

The guy from the counter came out with two coffees and set them down on the table, and Stevie went back to April 13, 1936, to Albert Ellingham pulling up the driveway. She went through all the known facts about the night—where everyone in the house was, the phone calls, George Marsh’s trip, the marked bills, the drop. Occasionally, Dr. Fenton would quiz her. Stevie rattled back the necessary information.