“I forgot,” she said with another yawn. “It all happened so long ago, it’s hard to imagine it being terribly urgent.”
“It is,” I said bluntly. “I need to have the information by the morning.”
“Very well. But you’d better hold my arm while we go downstairs. I don’t want to break my neck.”
It was a horrible image—Mrs. Fairmont lying in a twisted heap at the bottom of the stairs. I’d been hired to protect the elderly woman, not to place her in harm’s way.
“Maybe we should wait until you wake up in the night,” I said. “I can adapt to your schedule.”
“No, no. That cantaloupe was sweet enough to give me a few more minutes of energy.”
“Are you sure?”
She didn’t answer but started walking toward the basement. Flip and I followed. I firmly held her arm, and we made it to the bottom of the stairs without mishap. I turned on the bare lightbulbs that illuminated the open area opposite my apartment. Large cardboard boxes were stacked on top of one another. Furniture not in use was covered by white bedsheets. Shelves affixed to two of the walls contained scores of smaller boxes. I wouldn’t have known where to begin. Mrs. Fairmont stood at the bottom of the stairs and stared at a lifetime of accumulation.
“I think I keep the older records over here,” she said, moving down a row of the large boxes.
I followed. Most of the boxes were labeled. We passed dishes, extra china, and souvenirs from travel. Mrs. Fairmont stopped and pointed.
“Could you lift that one out?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am.” I sprang into action.
It was marked “Of Interest.” I placed the lightweight box at Mrs. Fairmont’s feet and removed the top. It was filled with yellowed newspapers.
“This is it!” I exclaimed.
“Maybe,” she said.
I reached in and grabbed a newspaper that promptly crumbled in my hands. “Oops,” I said.
“Don’t worry. I’d never have seen it again if you hadn’t asked me about Ellen’s daughter.”
I carefully retrieved what was left and held it up to the light. It was a Savannah paper almost seventy years old. Mrs. Fairmont leaned close to my shoulder.
“That’s from my school days,” she said. “My mother probably saved it because it contained news about me and my classmates.”
I stared at the other papers in the box. “Would everything in this box be that old?”
“At least,” she said. “Put it back. I don’t want to read it.”
I returned the box to its place. Mrs. Fairmont pointed to another box. This one was labeled “Newsworthy Items.” I put it on the floor and removed the top. Inside were stacks of manila folders grown discolored with age.
“That’s Christine’s handwriting,” Mrs. Fairmont said, pointing to the tab on the top folder. “These will be more recent.”
One by one I took the folders from the box. They contained everything from Christmas punch recipes to information about horses.
“Christine loved to ride jumpers when she was younger. She wasn’t afraid of anything.”
I remembered my brief ride in the car with Mrs. Bartlett. I thought she might try to jump the curb in her Mercedes. Toward the bottom of the box, I saw a folder with the name “Lisa” on it and opened it. My eyes fell on the front page of the Savannah paper and a grainy picture of a little girl. I showed it to Mrs. Fairmont. She stared at it for a second.
“It’s Lisa,” she said in a sad voice. “That picture brings back a lot of memories. Lisa loved dressing up and sitting in a parlor chair with her feet dangling in the air. Ellen brought her over several times for afternoon tea.”
While Mrs. Fairmont talked, I quickly scanned the article. On a Tuesday afternoon, the ten-year-old girl vanished following a piano lesson. The piano teacher, a woman named Miss Broadmore, was questioned by police and reported that Lisa left the teacher’s house at precisely 4:30 p.m. for the five-minute walk home along familiar streets. Lisa never made it. Within an hour the police were notified. Requests for assistance were broadcast on the local radio stations. Anyone seeing her was urged to come forward.
“It was a sad time,” Mrs. Fairmont continued. “The whole city was touched by the Prescotts’ loss. I think Christine saved all the articles she could. Most of my news came directly from Ellen.”
There were other articles in the folder. All of them featured the same photograph. Even in a black-and-white image, Lisa fit Moses Jones’ description.
“Do you remember anything else Ellen told you?”
Mrs. Fairmont shook her head. “There are lots of things jumbled up in my head. Trying to sort them out would be an unhappy way to end the day.”