the Morrow House. Indeed, as he zeroed in on it, he recognized earlier landmarks and realized that it was only a block or two from Mrs. Shay’s house. That must be convenient for Cal and Jonna both, he thought. He felt optimistic when he saw that the walks had been freshly shoveled and that the nearest slot in the half-empty parking lot held a black four-door sedan.
The main entrance of the old stone mansion was locked, but after much determined pounding, an elderly man in a shirt, tie, and gray tweed jacket emerged from somewhere behind the central staircase of the grand foyer. He was tall and thin, with white hair, and he shook his finger reprovingly at Dwight as he approached to speak through the door. “I’m sorry, but we’re closed on weekdays.”
“I know,” said Dwight. “I’m looking for Jonna Bryant.”
“She’s not here today.”
“Do you have any idea where she could be? I’m Cal’s dad and I really need to talk to her.”
The man hesitated, then opened the door.
Dwight started to unzip his jacket before realizing that 4 the entrance hall was only marginally warmer than outside. At least he was out of the wind, though.
“Oh, my,” said the man, who had caught a glimpse of Dwight’s gun beneath his jacket. “You’re a police officer, aren’t you? Isn’t that what Jonna said?” His Ben Franklin glasses had slipped down on his narrow nose and he pushed them up with his index finger.
Dwight nodded. “Have you talked with her today?”
The man shook his head and his glasses slowly began to edge back down his nose. Dwight realized that those nerdy glasses, stooped build, and head of silver-blond hair had caused him to overestimate the man’s age by at least twenty years. He was probably not much over forty.
“I’m Frederick Mayhew,” he said, offering a hand that felt boneless when Dwight shook it. “I’m the director of the Morrow House here.”
“Dwight Bryant. From down near Raleigh.”
“Yes, Jonna’s mentioned you.”
“She didn’t happen to mention where she’d be today, did she?”
Mayhew adjusted his glasses and shook his head. “Actually, she was supposed to be here today. At least I think she was. No, I’m pretty sure that’s right. I called her around ten to see if I’d misunderstood this week’s schedule—we’re quite informal here during the winter and only work three days a week. Saturday and Sunday, of course, and then either Friday or Monday so we can turn the heat down the rest of the time and save money. Isn’t it absolutely wicked how much heating oil costs these days? Anyhow, I thought we’d agreed on Friday this week, but occasionally I get it muddled and I’ll come in on a Friday only to find that we’d agreed on Monday.”
“Was she there when you called?” Dwight asked, trying to get Mayhew back on track.
“No, just her answering machine.”
“Does she usually call if she’s not coming in when she’s supposed to?”
“Oh, absolutely. She’s thoroughly reliable and conscientious. We—the board and I—we feel very lucky to have her. And of course she’s a Shay, so she knows the Morrow House intimately.”
He picked up on Dwight’s blank look and frowned.
“Her mother was a Morrow. Didn’t you know?”
“I guess it never really registered.” For a moment, Dwight felt as if he ought to apologize for his lapse.
“Oh, well, you’re not from here, are you? So it wouldn’t mean as much to you, would it?”
Mayhew’s tone was one of gentle commiseration for Dwight’s misfortune at being born elsewhere.
“The Morrows arrived here shortly after the first Shays founded the town in 1820,” he said, sliding into what must be a familiar lecture. “They had been merchants and traders in Philadelphia, but down here they were mainly lawyers, judges, and politicians. Judge Peter Morrow, who built this house, was a United States representative at the time of the Civil War. Afterwards, he became even more important as a judge during Reconstruction. It’s his youngest daughter that haunts the Rose Bedroom.”
“You have a ghost?” Dwight asked, momentarily di-verted.
“Oh, yes,” Mayhew said proudly. “She died of a broken heart when her lover was killed at Shiloh. Now, Peter’s grandson lost the family fortune during the great 4 stock market crash. Took a lot of Shay money with him, I’m afraid, which precipitated his death in 1931.”
“That’s very interesting,” Dwight said, “but Jonna—”
“Yes, of course,” said Mayhew. “I do ramble on, don’t I? Now what was it you wanted to know about Jonna?”
“When you last spoke to her?” Dwight said patiently.
“Let me see . . . Sunday? Yes, I’m almost positive it was Sunday.”
“If you speak to her again, would you tell her to call me?”
Dwight scribbled his cell number on a slip of paper and Mayhew placed it in his wallet with solemn care.
By now, it was almost two, so Dwight drove back to the school and stuck his head inside Cal’s classroom.
Miss Jackson looked up from the storybook she was reading aloud to the class and gave a smiling nod to Cal, who immediately shrugged his backpack on over his heavy jacket and joined Dwight in the hall.
“Don’t you have a hat?” Dwight asked. “Or gloves?”
“I forgot them this morning,” Cal said. The bitter January wind whipped their faces red when they walked
