“The first year. 1935–36.”

“Right,” Kyoko said, heading to the end of the first row of shelves. “The 1935–1936 school year at Ellingham Academy was incomplete because of the kidnappings. The school’s first full academic year started in the fall of 1938. You know all that.”

Stevie nodded.

“It was also a very small class. It was the experiment year. So the records aren’t as extensive. There was no full yearbook. However, the school had produced a guide for the first class.”

She opened a folio box and removed a small clothbound book. On the front it read: ELLINGHAM ACADEMY. The paper was thick and brownish, and the ink was a brownish red. The lettering looked hand-drawn.

“There is a box of photographs as well,” Kyoko said, handing Stevie a flat storage box. From the rattle of the contents and the weight, it didn’t sound like it contained a tremendous amount. “You can take those out into the main study room.”

Stevie lifted the box and followed Kyoko back out, then settled herself at one of the big wooden tables and switched on a work lamp. She tried to contain herself as she opened the book. The first page contained an elaborate map of the campus, indicating buildings that were complete and buildings to come. There was a letter from Albert Ellingham welcoming everyone, a list of teachers and faculty . . . Stevie kept flipping until she got to the students. Each one got a third of a page. Frankie was staring up at her from the bottom of the very first page of entries. There was the girl who had dressed as Bonnie Parker. Stevie read the entry underneath.

Francis Josephine Crane, New York City

Birthday: February 15, 1919

Interests: Chemistry, films, ballet

“Got you,” Stevie said under her breath.

A few pages later, she found the next person she was searching for.

Edward Pierce Davenport, Boston

Birthday: November 12, 1918

Interests: Literature, opera, art

In his school photo, Edward had a rakish grin, like he knew something the others did not.

A bit like David.

Stevie dug through the box of photographs. Many were of the buildings or the construction sites. Some were shots of the mountain view. There were pictures of the students sitting at desks and worktables in stilted poses. One pose was a dead ringer for an ad for an ambulance-chasing legal firm with about ten people gathered around, smiling at one open book. Many of the furnishings were exactly the same as they were now, including pictures in this very library. She easily found Francis and Edward in a few of these photos. One thing jumped out at her: Francis and Edward looked rich. Francis was wearing two different fur coats in the photos—one short white jacket and a longer, dark one. Edward also had a long fur coat, and he stood with the casual ease of a rich guy—the lean, the half smile.

Could these two students have kidnapped Iris and Alice Ellingham and Dottie Epstein? That would have been impossible, surely? Someone would have noticed that two students were missing on the day of the kidnapping, right? How would they have gotten off campus? They probably didn’t have cars. Why would two students kidnap Iris and Alice Ellingham? And they wouldn’t have been able to also beat up George Marsh, Albert Ellingham’s FBI agent friend, in the middle of the night, or make the ransom calls, or have a boat on Lake Champlain two days later to collect the additional ransom money. Not alone. Could they have been working with other people?

Did any of this make sense?

Dottie Epstein turned up in the photos as well, and she did not look rich. Her clothes were plain, and she wore the same ones in most of the photos. But she looked much happier than Edward or Francis. Her smile was always wide, and she usually had a book in her hands or under her arm.

“Can I scan these?” she asked Kyoko.

“Sure.”

She allowed Stevie into the back again and pointed her to the scanner.

“When I first got here,” she said to Kyoko, “you showed me some old library records, things the students requested.”

“Yeah?”

“Could I see it again?”

“You really are jumping back in,” Kyoko said with a smile. “I’ll go and get it.”

When Stevie had first looked at this list, it was to see the many materials Dottie Epstein had requested. Her initials, DE, were next to her items. But someone else had requested pulp magazines: Gun Molls Magazine, Vice Squad Detective, Dime Detective, All True Facts Detective Stories. The initials next to most of these were FC. Francis Crane.

“Do you have any of these?” Stevie said.

“I’ve looked for them,” Kyoko said. “I’d love to find them. But they must have disappeared a long time ago. The students who asked for them probably took them and never gave them back.”

The students who took them, Stevie thought, probably took them and cut them apart. If she could find these magazines online, she could look at the letters. She could compare the typeface of those magazines to the photographs of the Truly Devious letter. Or someone could. The FBI. Someone.

She didn’t have all the answers, but she had something. Now she had to do some of the drudge work and scan all of this to add to her files. She put on her headphones, turned on My Favorite Murder, and started with the student guide. Page by page, photo by photo, she got each image.

After an hour or so of this, she returned to the main study room and opened her computer. Time for a basic search. Very little turned up about Francis Josephine Crane. It looked like there were a few references to her in social registers, some notes about her debutante ball, but nothing that seemed to go past around 1940, and not in much detail.

Edward Pierce Davenport, however, did turn up several things. Wikipedia had a brief entry:

Edward Pierce Davenport (1918–1940) was an American poet. His only published work was the 1939 collection Milk Moon. Davenport was best known for his relationships with other American expatriate writers and poets in France in the late 1930s, and for his reckless lifestyle. He committed suicide in Paris on June 15, 1940, the day the Nazis entered the city.

There was a little footnote there, so Stevie clicked it. It led her to a small excerpt from a longer book.

On June 15, 1940, the day after the Nazis entered Paris, Edward Pierce Davenport spent the day consuming opium and violet champagne. At sunset, as loudspeakers in the street announced the night’s curfew, he donned a gold dressing gown and climbed to the rooftop of his Parisian apartment on the Rue de Rennes in Saint Germain. After toasting the city and the setting sun, he downed a last glass of champagne and swan-dived from the building into the street below. His body landed on a Nazi vehicle, denting the roof.

“A fourth-rate poet,” said a friend, “but a first-rate death.”

“Your friends are real dicks,” Stevie said.

“I know,” replied a voice, “but they’re the only ones I have.”

This is when the screaming started.

7

SQUIRRELS, IN STEVIE’S EXPERIENCE, WERE NOT OBEDIENT CREATURES, prone to forming themselves into well-regulated groups that moved as one. These squirrels were far too coordinated to her liking. They were streaming through the library, perhaps a hundred of them. They were coming down the wrought-iron steps, skittering along the edges of railings, all in an unbroken flow.

This was only slightly more distracting than the sight in front of her. Spread out on the table was a pair of familiar hands—long, elegant hands. There was the worn-out T-shirt; strong, wiry arms. She followed these up to find brown eyes flecked with gold looking at her.

Stevie yanked her legs up as squirrels began running under the tables.

“That’s weird,” David said, observing the chaos. “So, when did you get back?”

Stevie fought the urge to hit him with her laptop, largely because she did not want to damage it.

“What did you do?” she hissed.

“Me?”

“Don’t be a dick,” she said.

“That ship has sailed. Hang on. We can’t fight yet. Where’s my hug?”

“Out!” Kyoko said, pointing at David. “Everyone out.”

“Well, that’s not conducive to learning,” David said under his breath.

Stevie grabbed her stuff, sweeping one or two photos from the collection into her bag, and hurried out as Kyoko started running around the library, checking windows and closing doors.