The Vanishing Stair (Truly Devious #2)(35)

“All right,” Dr. Fenton said, after about a half hour and three cigarettes. “That’s good groundwork. Tell me who you think kidnapped Iris and Alice Ellingham. Who is Truly Devious?”

“I don’t know,” Stevie said.

“Not Anton Vorachek?”

“Of course not.”

Dr. Fenton looked at Stevie for a long moment and sucked on her cigarette. Stevie could hear the paper burning.

“This case is about money,” Dr. Fenton said. “It was always about the money. Anton Vorachek didn’t care about money. To solve the case, follow the money. Whoever kidnapped Iris and Alice knew how much money was in the safe in Ellingham’s office. How the hell would Anton Vorachek know that?”

“Because the bank made regular deliveries,” Stevie said. “The work crew was paid in cash. Lots of people knew that money was there. At least, that’s what people said.”

“Right. So everyone says. Except that those deliveries were done very carefully, and the amount of cash on hand varied. You would have to know when it went in and when it was going to go out.”

Stevie said nothing, because she agreed. So did most people who looked at the case.

“So,” Dr. Fenton went on, “then you have to look at who was in the house, and plenty of people were in the house. Full-time staff of twenty, plus, over a hundred people on the property every day of the week. The work crew, the staff of the school, and the students. Plus, guests. Leonard Holmes Nair and Flora Robinson were upstairs, and obviously by the time George Marsh arrived on the scene to help, Flora Robinson could not be found. Loads of people to choose from. But not Anton Vorachek. He was an anarchist, unpopular, the perfect patsy when someone had to go down for the crime. I mean, if you’re going to believe that, then you probably believe Oswald assassinated Kennedy all by himself.”

Stevie blinked a little at this. It seemed early to be getting into conspiracy theories.

“But this is ‘The Ellingham Affair 101.’ And I think you’re a little beyond that.”

She stubbed out her cigarette on the table, which was kind of gross. The gray ash blew all around.

“Okay,” she said. “You’re hired. You have access to the attic in the big house, I hear.”

Stevie nodded.

“Good.” Fenton reached into her bag and pulled out a dog-eared legal pad. “There are some things I want cross-checked. Little details I need to get right. Some of them are architectural. I need to confirm where some things are, what they look like. Some other things you’ll probably find up in the attic. I think there are household records up there. I need checks on things like guest lists, schedules, stuff like that. That should be in the household books.”

She slid the notepad over to Stevie.

“All those things,” she said. “Check them out for me. Write down any details. This is your job. Go forth and prosper.”

She shoved the pad at Stevie, who glanced through it. Fenton had questions about things like menus, china patterns, who was at the house on certain dates, the color of the walls. Mundane stuff.

“My book will change everything,” Fenton said. “I have information that will knock everything sideways.”

Stevie looked up in interest.

“Like what?”

“That is for me to know, and maybe you to find out if you do your job.”

This seemed like a big claim. But then again, Stevie had something in her bag at this very moment that could reframe the entire case. She brought it along because she refused to leave it behind when she was not on campus, and also because she’d had a fantasy of showing it to the professor, so they could immediately team up to bust the Ellingham Affair wide open. Dr. Fenton, or Fenton, had not inspired Stevie to open up. She was somehow . . . sadder than Stevie expected. Maybe it was the cigarettes. Maybe, though, it was something more. Something in her eyes and the way she sat. Something was not right with Fenton.

A guy was walking up to them, about Stevie’s age. He was fair, with a spray of light gold freckles splashed out along his nose and cheekbones. He wore a well-fitted black hoodie with a blue wool jacket on top, and a ski hat. He used a single arm crutch on his left arm to walk, and had a canvas backpack covered in patches thrown over the other shoulder.

“I got a parking space,” he said. “Hey.”

That was to Stevie.

“This is my nephew,” Fenton said. “Hunter. This is Stevie. Stevie is my new assistant on the book. You two talk. I gotta hit the restroom. Back in a second.”

Fenton got up, grabbed the table as if unsteady, and then clomped her way inside.

Hunter leaned his crutch against the wall of the café and sat down where his aunt had been. They had only a slight resemblance—they had the same large blue eyes. His were bordered by thick blond brows that were permanently set on “furrowed.”

“You’re from Ellingham?” he said.

“Yeah. How can you tell?”

“Your name is Stevie. You’re working on this book. You were in the news about the death on campus.”

“Oh,” Stevie said, feeling embarrassed by the obviousness of this. “Right.”

“Have you been interested in the case long?”

“A few years,” she said.

He bit his lip and nodded.

“I live with my aunt while I go to school here,” he said.