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Chapter 17

Olga Swenson was sitting in her car when Liz startled her by tapping on the older woman’s steamy window. Without a word, Olga led Liz into the house on Fenwick Street. Standing aside to let Liz enter first, she let out a sigh. With some surprise, Liz noticed the smell of alcohol on Olga’s breath.

Olga did not take off her coat but led Liz straight up to Veronica’s bedroom. A scrap of yellow “CRIME SCENE” tape provided the answer to Liz’s unasked question: “How did Mrs. Swenson know the stripped wallpaper was the work of the police?”

Inside the room, everything was in disarray. Plastic sheeting covered a bed heaped with stuffed animals and dolls, while trash bags appeared to be stuffed with other trinkets and toys.

“Veronica loved her Madeline wallpaper,” Olga said. “We purchased it for her when she was five. I’m not sure we could find it again if we tried. Hasn’t she suffered enough without having her room vandalized by the authorities?” She sat down heavily on the only available piece of furniture in the room, a child-sized wooden chair. “Why would they do this?” she nearly sobbed.

As Liz moved to crouch down beside Olga, she realized she must have set this destruction in motion by reporting Veronica’s unusual request: “Please, Santa, bring me new wallpaper.” The police must be grasping at straws to regard that report as significant.

Crouching, with tears in her eyes, Liz took Mrs. Swenson’s hands in her own but could not admit she knew the answer to the question. “I will do everything I can to find more of that wallpaper for you,” she promised. Standing, she pulled the older woman to her feet, then picked up a sizeable scrap of the paper from the floor. “Let’s make some tea and look over that book list,” she suggested.

In the kitchen, Olga seemed to gather herself together, as she prepared coffee rather than tea. “I just can’t think of using those teacups,” she said. She did not take off her coat.

Meanwhile, Liz studied the list, which recorded three months of Ellen’s borrowing records. Most titles were followed by the author’s name, a call number, and two dates, presumably indicating the date borrowed and date returned. In four cases, there was no return date. And, in the case of the children’s book, there were three renewals. Liz turned her attention to the titles and authors:

The Friends of the Environment New Car Buying Guide by Harold Gold

The Consumer Guide to New Car Ratings 2000

Silent Knights by Josephine Henshaw

Private Schools in Massachusetts: 1974 by the Private Schools Consortium

How to Be a Perfect Stranger, edited by Stuart M. Matlins

You Can Speak Arabic Program: Level One by Ahmed Sulieman

Understanding Speech Impediments by Gareth Weiner

Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White

Everyday Life in Palestine by Nadia Mafouz

How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found by Sara Nickerson

Christmas Cookie Recipe Round-Up by Caroline Frost

Lowering the list and lifting her eyes to meet the older woman’s, Liz said softly, “Mrs. Swenson, I must ask, are you surprised by the contents of this list?”

Unwilling to speak, Olga nodded. Then she shook her head. Signaling Liz to remain seated, she stepped into the living room and then returned with a small stack of books including all but one of the books that were noted as not yet returned. The title How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found seemed to describe the state of the only book from Ellen’s list that remained unaccounted for.

“I found this on the floor in Veronica’s room,” she said, lifting the copy of Charlotte’s Web. “The rest were on Ellen’s night table,” she added, pointing to the others. “Take them if you like. For now, I need to go home and collect myself.” Her tone was steely.

“Please help me just a bit more,” Liz begged.

But Mrs. Swenson shook her head

“Think of Ellen . . . ,” Liz pleaded.

“What do you think I’m doing, every minute of every day?” Olga snapped. She stood up and extended her arm to indicate that Liz should lead the way out of the house.

“I hope you believe I mean to find your daughter.”

“Please!” Olga said, slamming Ellen’s front door. Striding down her daughter’s front walk, she fumbled her car’s lock, muttered a curse, got into her car, and drove off without a backward glance.

Standing on the sidewalk, Liz folded the list of books and tucked it into her purse. Then she stood still for a moment, regarding the piece of wallpaper in her hands. Damp and torn, it depicted twelve little girls in two perfect lines, and the last of them all was Madeline. The troublemaker. Liz knew it was time to find the Wharton Alternative School’s equivalent of Miss Clavel.

It was just a few minutes past two o’clock when Liz rang the doorbell of Dr. Mayhew’s Brookline home. Standing across the street from a park graced with leafless weeping willow trees, the brown-stained, wood frame house appeared to have been built during the first years of the twentieth century. Its furnishings dated from the middle of that same time period, Liz noticed, as the former headmaster ushered her through his living room into his den.

“Bachelor housekeeping,” he said apologetically, as the pair passed stacks of books and papers in the living room. He spoke in the booming tones of a man who is hard of hearing.

“Looks more like scholarly housekeeping to me,” Liz said, matching his volume.

“You’re too kind. I wish I could call myself a scholar. When I retired from Wharton, I had great hopes of writing a truly worthwhile study, but I suppose that was just another case of ‘the best-laid plans of mice and men.’ Please sit down, Miss Higgs.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t speak clearly enough on my phone message. It’s Higgins, Liz Higgins.”

“Nonsense! If I’m going to be of any use to you, let’s be honest. I didn’t get your name right because I couldn’t hear it! Now, how can I help you?”

“All right, I will be honest, then, too. I’m here for two reasons. One is to get some background for a story I’m writing on New Year’s Resolutions. Later today I shall be interviewing DYS-incarcerated girls about their resolutions and how likely they think they are to see them through.”

“And, I take it, you want me to tell you what I’ve learned along these lines with my students. It’s a dull question, but I’ll help you. Nevertheless, I’m no fool. You’re really more excited about learning something else from me aren’t you? So why don’t we begin with that?” Dr. Mayhew said, smiling.

“You’re right. I’m looking for a past student of yours, sir. His name is Al Leigh.”

“Say again?”

Liz raised her voice and enunciated carefully. “Al Leigh. L, E, I, G, H.”

“I could hear you all right. But I can’t call to mind anyone named Leigh, Al or otherwise.”

“I’m told he was perhaps Hispanic, despite the surname. Perhaps his full first name was Alberto or Alfredo? He would have been a student in 1973.”

“No. No Albertos or Alfredos come to mind. Hmm, 1973. Just before the school closed. Al Leigh.” Dr. Mayhew shook his head and said again, “Al Leigh.” Then he exclaimed, “Ali! Of course you must mean Ali. Olive-skinned Ali. Oh, what was his last name? He didn’t belong in the company of those troublemakers. His only problem was his tongue.”

“He was outspoken, foul mouthed?”

Dr. Mayhew wore a wistful expression. “No, no, not at all. While the other lads turned the air blue with cussing if they were angry or agitated, Ali clammed up. He was tongue-tied, you see. And English was not his first language.” The headmaster paused, then exclaimed, “Abdulhazar. That’s it. Ali Abdulhazar. The name was enough to make him the butt of the boys’ jokes. With his speech impediment and his accent, when he did manage to speak, he was the center of far too much negative attention from the other boys.”

“He was bullied?”

“I tried to keep them from bullying him, but there was only so much I could do, I’m afraid. When my back was turned, they circled him for the kill—figuratively, of course—like a school of sharks around a juicy tidbit. Most of those boys had been mistreated themselves, you see, so it rather came naturally to them to behave like that. Mind if I . . . ?” Dr. Mayhew said, picking up a pipe.

“Not at all.”

Dr. Mayhew made much of filling, tamping, and lighting his pipe. Finally, he went on: “It was no wonder he courted detention so often, usually by straying off school grounds. The other boys hated having to sit still in my office, but I think Ali rather liked it. First, he got away from the others by wandering off. Then, once he was rounded up, he had my protection for an hour or two. Even if watching me do paperwork had to be deadly dull, it beat being teased by the other boys. I hate to say it, but he may even have built his status by running off so much. The others saw him as devil-may-care, a quality they admired.”

Dr. Mayhew fussed with his pipe some more. “Ali finally got them off his back when he was caught with that girl. What was her name? Of course the incident meant his days were numbered at Wharton, so he couldn’t enjoy the boys’ newfound esteem for him.”

“What incident?”

“In the Pinetum across the way, he was caught in some kind of compromising position with a young girl. The girl’s father was livid. He insisted Ali was masturbating while watching the girl dancing. Pretty girl, I remember, a strawberry blonde, dressed in some kind of scarves. Like that dancer, Isadora Duncan.” Dr. Mayhew paused to reignite his pipe. “The outfit was more unusual than revealing. Innocent-looking, I thought, not sexy. But the girl’s father was beside himself. Absolutely beside himself. The more he cursed and demanded explanations, the more tongue-tied Ali became.”

“Did you observe this, or did the father tell you about it? And what happened to the girl?”

“Oh, I was there, all right. But not before the father was laying into Ali verbally. It was his shouting that helped me locate the boy, who had been missing for about an hour. The girl was crying, but I had the impression she was more cowed by her father’s shouting than by Ali. The mother came running and whisked the girl away. The father was a big man. I remember thinking he was a big Swede when he told me his name. What was it?”

“Swenson, Karl Swenson.”

“That’s it! How did you know? And the girl’s name was Olga.”

“No, that’s the wife. The girl was called Ellen.”

“Yes, yes. You’ve got it! What makes you ask about this?”

“I’ve been trying to find Ellen ever since she went missing a week ago, leaving behind her own little girl, a child called Veronica.”

“Has this been in the papers? I’m afraid I only take the Times now. For the crossword puzzle. Don’t read the local papers much anymore.”

“Yes, Dr. Mayhew, we’ve been covering it. And what you are telling me now is extremely helpful. May I ask, was Arabic Ali’s first language? And what brought him to your school?”

“Right, on the Arabic. His mother brought him to the school, literally and, I suspect, figuratively, too. That is, her inability to handle him—his learning disabilities and speech impediment—and perhaps some over-severe discipline in her household administered by her or, more likely, by her husband—had made the boy unmanageable. Like all of our boys, he could not thrive in a typical public school. But his was a need for less rather than more discipline, along with lots of speech therapy and ESL.”

“You mean English as a Second Language?”

“Right again. We didn’t have those kinds of specialists on hand, unfortunately. And even if we had, it’s unlikely they’d have been proficient in Arabic. Still, perhaps they could have put to rest my question about how tongue-tied he actually was. When he was in trouble or agitated, he sometimes hummed or sort of mumbled. I had to wonder if he was doing the Arabic equivalent of a ‘Hail, Mary,’ if you know what I mean. That’s not a very politically correct way of putting it, but I mean sort of calling on his deity.” Dr. Mayhew shook himself. “Then again, he could have been mumbling a nursery rhyme, pop lyrics, or hurling out curses, for all anyone knew. His native language was a mystery to me.”

“Do you remember him saying anything when he was being hounded by Mr. Swenson?”

“Nothing specific. But it would have been typical for him to sort of clutch his hands around his knees and mumble while looking caught, like a deer in the headlights.”

“What happened to him after the incident?”

“We had to expel the poor bugger. I argued to the board that we should keep him on until a case was proven against him, but they nixed that. The school was in trouble financially and the board feared Swenson’s ire would be the last nail in our coffin. They thought he’d go to the press. As it turned out, Swenson went mum as soon as Ali left. It was a matter of a day or two before the boy’s parents came to collect him. As for his fate after that, I’m in the dark. I wrote down the name of a colleague at another school whom I thought might consider admitting Ali to his program, but I saw the boy’s dad stuff the paper I wrote it on into a trash bin before the family got into their car. All I can say is I hope Ali was able to put his ear to good use.”

“His ear?”

“He had perfect pitch. And he was clever, mechanically. Strange that a boy who faltered at speaking could sing like a lark. According to the music teacher, who came round once every two weeks, he could tell you what note you were playing just by hearing it. After Ali took apart our piano and fixed a broken key, the music teacher wanted to introduce him to a piano tuner he knew. He said the man was getting old and might take on an apprentice. But Ali was expelled before that could come to pass.”

“Are you still in contact with the music teacher?”

“I never see him, but his wife always sends me a Christmas card. This year was no exception. I remember noticing the address was different this year, but I didn’t save it. I never send Christmas cards. I just threw out the envelope.”

“Do you remember anything about the address? Was it in Massachusetts, for instance?”

Dr. Mayhew paused. “No, I don’t remember a thing about where it was. But I do remember thinking, ‘God forbid I ever have to live in a place called Harmony Haven. Appropriate for a music teacher, though, I suppose. You’ll want to know his name, of course. It’s Buxton, Clifford Buxton.”

Regarding his book- and paper-strewn surroundings with an expression blending fondness and chagrin, he continued, “And that brings us to your question about resolutions and resolve. Most of my boys possessed neither. And what kind of mentor would I have been, in the unlikely event that any of them came up with resolutions? A very poor one, I’m afraid. Do you know how many times I’ve made the resolution to sort out this stuff? That number is on the verge of the infinite. But have I exercised any resolve? You tell me,” he said with a chuckle.

As Liz stood up to leave, the doorbell rang. Embarrassed, she realized it was probably the Banner’s photographer. Despite having no forewarning, Dr. Mayhew cooperated in having his photo taken as Liz thanked him and rushed off to her car.

In her car, Liz used her new cell phone to call the Newton police. Their public information officer confirmed the wallpaper stripping at Fenwick Street was done on their orders. The officer would neither reveal what the police had hoped to find nor what had spurred the authorities to strip the little girl’s room. Now that she thought about it, Liz realized that, while comforting Olga Swenson, she had failed to scrutinize Veronica’s bare walls. That was a missed opportunity but not overly worrisome, since she knew it was her own report that had inspired the strip search. And Liz also knew that Veronica’s request for the wallpaper was made only after she had asked a half-dozen Santas for every other gift she’d ever wished for.

This last thought caused Liz to pick up her cell phone one more time. She would have to make this call quickly, since she had to get back into the heart of Boston to meet with the DYS girls.

The phone rang several times before Tom’s voice—unaccompanied this time—announced, “Hi! You’ve reached Tip Top Paper Hangers. Leave a message and I’ll get right back to you.”

Until this afternoon, Liz only thought about Tom’s work in regard to his predictable appearances changing the displays on her billboard. But of course, he also worked hanging wallpaper in people’s homes. He would know where to find wallpaper with a Madeline motif, if anyone did. And—just perhaps—it wouldn’t be such a tragedy if the same pattern could not be found. Hadn’t Veronica asked Santa for new wallpaper?

“Hi, Tom. It’s Liz,” she said into her phone. “I’ve just had a brainstorm and, oh, how I hope you can help me with it. Please call me as soon as possible.” She reminded him of her home phone number and announced her new cell phone number, too.

Next, she phoned Olga Swenson’s residence, only to be greeted by an answering machine message there, too.

“Mrs. Swenson, it’s Liz calling,” she told the machine, adding both telephone numbers. “I told you I would do my best about Veronica’s wallpaper and I have an idea to share with you. Please phone me at your first convenience.”

As she was about to hang up, a male voice broke in on the line. It was Erik Johansson. “I’m afraid my mother-in-law is quite upset,” he said. “She told me you spent some time with her this afternoon, but little more than that.”

“Did she tell you about Ellen’s reading list?”

“A reading list? No. What about it? She seemed most overcome by the wallpaper stripping. I felt remiss that I didn’t forewarn her about the room. I never thought she’d stop by like that before I could mention it. The police said there was a report in the paper that Veronica was desperate to change her wallpaper so they came to inspect it. When they didn’t find any rude words scrawled upon it or blood smears or whatever else they hoped to find, they took the next step and stripped it to see what was underneath.”

“Please don’t hang up when I tell you this: I have to admit, that was my report—from the time when Veronica was evaluating the Santas—that called attention to the wallpaper. I reported that she asked the seventh Santa for new wallpaper because she’d already asked the other six for every toy on her wish list. It was a cute remark, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Unless there was something under the wallpaper.”

“Was there?”

“The police thought so.”

“What was it?”

They wouldn’t tell me, but whatever it was caused them to haul me into the station for another hour of inquisition.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. What was the nature of their questions?”

“Are you sorry? Really? At this point, I don’t know what to think about you or about anyone else for that matter. Olga almost had me convinced you were an ally in finding my wife, and then she comes home utterly distraught after spending time in your company. Now you admit you’re the cause of the wallpaper fiasco.”

“Please, Erik, allow me at least to lighten your load about the wallpaper problem. As you already realize, a large part of Mrs. Swenson’s agitation today has to do with the destruction of your daughter’s bedroom. It’s bad enough that the room has been wrecked, but then, at first glance, the fact that the paper pattern may not be available makes things even worse. But the key point is Veronica wanted Santa to bring her new wallpaper. Don’t you see, if the wallpaper is changed, she will believe it was Santa’s work!”

“How would I know what paper she would like? And Veronica is going to be home in two days. Who would hang paper on New Year’s Eve Day or, worse yet, New Year’s Day itself, with no advance warning, in time for my daughter’s return home?”

“I can’t promise anything, but please trust that I’m working on it. In the meantime, Mrs. Swenson might be a terrific help, in one regard. Do you think you could ask her if I’m correct in assuming Veronica is a fan of Wilbur, the pig, in the book Charlotte’s Web?”

“I don’t need to ask her. I know the answer to that one. That is the book my wife was reading to Veronica before Ellen disappeared. Veronica fell in love with Wilbur. She made Ellen read the book to her three times.”

“I know it’s a long shot, but please allow me to see if we can find Charlotte’s Web wallpaper and one of Santa’s elves to hang it for your very special little girl.”

“Spare no expense. It’s an inspired idea.”