Escape Artist

walks. I seen you walking home from the theater by yourself. He watched you from the shadows. He spies on his brother. He walks around the high school. He even walked past the house of that dead girl Frana. I follow him, not trusting such a man.” He looked at me. “A couple times, lately, he stood by your father’s house. He watches you. Your friend, the pretty girl. He’s a dangerous man, that one. Up to no good. A shadow in the streets. Some nights when I see you about, sooner or later, he’s nearby.”

Suddenly I was flooded with frightening images: my footfall tracked, shadows in the woods, a menacing silhouette against a cast-iron-gray sky, the dark Homer Timm in wraparound cloak, sheltered behind thick cedars, the hand that reaches out, touches the young girl’s neck…

I looked at Mac. “Thank you. But why didn’t you say anything?”

“Say what? I follow a man who sometimes walks at night? He ain’t do nothing but walk.”

“But he spies…”

“But nothing. He walks and walks, and then he returns to Mrs. Zeller’s.”

“But I don’t like the way he accosted you today at the high school, Miss Ferber,” Sam added. “That was scary. Maybe he is the murderer, maybe not. But his behavior toward you needs to be addressed.”

I winced. Perhaps I’d overstated the facts, embellishing grandly, Homer Timm as ogre writ large. But it was too late now.

Mac was talking. “I think he is the murderer.”

“What?” From Sam.

“I’ve met murderers.”

For some reason the line from the tramp printer struck me as amusing. Then I saw Sam’s quizzical look.

Sam went on. “You and I need to talk to him now. At the high school. He has some explaining to do. He didn’t act like a gentleman.”

“He’s ain’t no gentleman.” Mac frowned. “I don’t trust the man. You, Sam, he can push over like an old chair.” Sam did not like that. “And you, Miss Ferber, he can break your neck like a baby robin caught in the jaws of an eagle.”

Well, thank you. Another graphic image of my demise.

Sam looked up at the tall man. “Mac, you got a paper to print. Miss Ferber and I…”

Mac’s thick beefy fist crashed to the table. “I’m going.”

Sam and I both nodded.

Chapter Nineteen

I felt a bit foolish as my army of two protectors moved with me down College Avenue, across streets and onto the high school lot. We were a curious trio, me with my tattered dress flopping in the breeze, my hat slightly askew; Sam, so ancient, shuffling with old-man steps; and the mighty Mac, whose long legs kept moving him yards ahead, anxious as he was, so he had to periodically pause, waiting for the lesser mortals to catch up. At the entrance to the high school Mac stopped, nervous. He seemed unsure of himself, like some errant bad boy summoned to the principal’s office.

Miss Hepplewhyte, startled by the trio of interlopers, was in the process of locking up the school. She announced that everyone was gone, Principal Jones a while back, and Homer Timm-“He looked like a man frightened by a horse”-had bustled by her, rushing out in a hurry, without saying goodbye. No, she said, he didn’t say where he was headed. Hadn’t we heard what she’d just said. He spoke not a word of goodbye as he left.

We looked at one another, and I suggested he’d returned to the rooming house or, perhaps, he was hiding at the Lyceum, sheltered by his brother.

Homer, indeed, was at the Lyceum, sitting in a front office with Gustave and Mildred. Sitting behind Gustave, however, was Cyrus P. Powell, who’d obviously been interrupted in some discussion with Gustave and Mildred. His face set, lips razor-thin, he held a sheaf of papers. Facing the doorway, Homer spotted me, jumped up, alarmed, and pushed past us into the deserted lobby. He stumbled, crashing into a wall, but then stood against the glass display case that still contained the full-sized portrait of Harry Houdini, menacing in chains and locks. Mac planted himself in front of Homer as Gustave appeared, his face puzzled.

“Miss Ferber.” Gustave greeted me, and nodded at the others. “What’s going on? Homer stumbles in here all agitated. He’s been telling me some wild story.” He walked toward Homer, who looked both satanic (I thought) and frightened (I hoped), but Mac’s big body blocked him. “He says he may have frightened you.” He never took his eyes off Homer.

I gasped. “He did.”

Looking both peevish and furious, Mildred Dunne stood in the doorway, one hand holding a brochure, a refreshing photograph of Niagara Falls on the cover. Her eyes were icy. This was not a woman comfortable with interruption. Her father’s fortune had made her a tad imperious.

“My brother?” Gustave asked. He shook his head. “That seems impossible. Homer may be a little severe, but he’s a gentle soul.”

Homer was frozen against the display case, and I feared he’d smash the glass. Behind him, Houdini fixed us all in that penetrating stare, the eyes hard, and Homer looked like a scrawny schoolboy held in place by the class bully,

Mr. Powell walked out of the office and announced in his pebbles-on-a-tin-roof voice, “This is madness, all of it. I’m in a meeting with Gustave, and Mildred Dunne flounces in to wave Niagara Falls brochures at him. And just when I tell her to leave, Homer flies in, a maniac. Has everyone lost their minds? I have businesses to run.”

Sam Ryan ignored Mr. Powell. “Mr. Timm,” he addressed Homer, “Miss Ferber says you were less than gallant at the high school. You alarmed her, sir. To the point where we thought it best to talk to you about your behavior.”

Homer moved but Mac’s hand held him pinned to the display case. I waited for breaking glass, Houdini’s cardboard image crashing down on Homer.

Gustave stood next to Mac. “I don’t understand this. Homer rushed in here, a little crazy, saying Miss Ferber seemed to be suggesting something about the murder of that poor little girl.”

“I never accused him,” I insisted.

Gustave actually grinned. “Homer?” As though the idea were preposterous.

Mildred Dunne’s free hand grasped the doorjamb, her knuckles white.

I breathed in. “Your brother tried to hold me there. And I wonder why.”

Mr. Powell approached Homer, ready to speak, but thought better of it.

Gustave, eyebrows arched, “Miss Ferber, this is hardly the stuff of court testimony. My brother said you startled him coming out of that doorway, and you…What was that all about a cigar wrapper?”

Almost on cue Homer extracted a cigar from his breast pocket, waved it in the air. “I smoke what most Wisconsin men smoke.” He’d found his voice, tough and sure now. “I apologize for startling you, and I certainly didn’t want to keep you from leaving. You seemed…hysterical…and…”

“Sir, I have never been hysterical in my life.”

“I only mean…”

“I’m not imagining things. I was following the path taken by the murderer of Frana.”

Gustave squinted. “Why would you do that?”

“Why not? The answer to the murder is in the idea of that locked storeroom.” I heard echoes of my father’s voice.

“What?” From Mr. Powell. He moved closer to us.

“Think about it, Mr. Timm.” I addressed Homer. “Your conduct just moments ago did lend itself to suspicion. Wouldn’t you agree? Suddenly you spot a reporter at the very door where the murderer and Frana emerged, and you act peculiar.”

“Peculiar isn’t guilt.”

“But peculiar seems alien to your normal behavior.”