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"I hope I've been helpful, Mr. O'Neil." The headmistress rose, too, and came around the desk towards him. "Please be assured that, unlike Miranda Beckman, most of our girls profit by their experience here and—"
Her hip brushed the file folder. It fell to the hardwood floor. Papers spilled in all directions, along with a small black and white photo.
Conor bent down, retrieved the papers and the folder and put them on Agnes Foster's desk. But he held on to the photograph, his eyes riveted to the grainy image.
It was a picture of Miranda.
She was seated in the grass, her back against a tree, her legs tucked gracefully beneath her. There was a book in her lap—he couldn't read the title but it seemed to be a slim volume—and from the startled look on her face, he knew the photographer must have surprised her. Her dark hair was wind-tossed; she had one hand raised as if to brush it back from her eyes. The other hand lay curled in her lap, clutching something white. A handkerchief, he thought, or a tissue. And she was smiling. Really smiling. Not mysteriously but happily, as if all of life's most wonderful secrets were about to become hers.
"...have to clean out these files!"
Conor pulled his gaze from the photo. Agnes Foster was glaring at it as if it were a personal insult.
"Sorry, Miss Foster. What did you say?"
"I said, I can see that I'm going to have to go through these old files and sort them out."
"When was this snapshot taken, do you know?"
The headmistress took the picture from him. "Well," she said, "in the early spring, I should think. That's a dogwood tree. Do you see how it's starting to bloom?"
He did, now that the woman had pointed it out. He saw, too, that what he'd taken for a tissue or a handkerchief in Miranda's hand was, in fact, a creamy dogwood blossom.
"That's the sort of girl she was," Miss Foster said coldly. "Sitting on the grass when she knew it was forbidden, thoughtlessly plucking blossoms from the tree. I assure you, she would have been reprimanded for that."
"This was taken just before she ran away with the Count de Lasserre, then."
"Yes. In fact, I suspect he must have taken it." The headmistress's mouth tightened. "It was found in Miranda's closet, along with a few other things."
"Such as?"
"I don't recall, exactly. Some candy, I think, and a trashy book. Things she surely knew were forbidden. We pride ourselves on teaching self-discipline, Mr. O'Neil." Agnes Foster's nostrils flared. "Not that it did Miranda any good."
"Oh, I can see that," Conor said evenly. "A girl who'd walk on the grass, sneak chocolate into the dormitory..."
"They may seem minor infractions to you, sir, but our girls come to us with problems. They need a stern hand to guide them and I assure you, we attempted to offer that to Miranda. But it was too late. She was set in her ways, just as her mother and stepfather had warned us. She was self-centered. Selfish. A liar and a cheat." The headmistress's mouth twisted. "And promiscuous, to boot. I'm sorry to speak ill of a former student but I see no point in lying."
Conor took the photo from the woman's bony hand. "I'd like to keep this, if I may."
She looked as if he'd just suggested absconding with the school's funds.
"That's out of the question, I'm afraid. The photo is school property. I can
not hand it over to just anyone."
Lord, give me strength, Conor thought, but he gritted his teeth, drew himself to his full six feet two inches, and even managed a smile.
"But I'm not 'anyone,' Miss Foster, I'm..." What? What ID had he shown the old broad? "I'm in charge of dealing with this matter," he said briskly. "And I'll be more than happy to give you an official receipt."
Agnes Foster beamed. "In that case, the photo is yours."
* * *
He stopped at the first rest area on the highway, bought himself coffee, then took out his cell phone, called Harry Thurston and told him what he'd learned.
"So, you think the girl sent Mama the note?" Thurston said.
Conor undid his collar and loosened his tie.
