Page 3

CHAPTER 3

A Truth, dropped in the silent earth,

May seem a thing of little worth,

Till, spreading round some mighty wrong,

It saps its pillars proud and strong,

And o’er the fallen ruin weaves

The brightest blooms and fairest leaves.

—Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, “Truth”

WHITNEY

I took a moment to reattach the doorknob and deadbolt before we stepped out onto the porch. We took the steps down to the lawn and turned to head back to the parking lot. As we did, I glanced over at the collapsed porch post. While the bottom half of the post was thick and square, the upper half was more ornate, with curves like a spindle. Although I would have expected the damaged post to snap at its narrowest point, which would presumably also be its weakest point, it had broken about two feet from the bottom where the post was the thickest. Odd. I slowed as I passed it, noting something lodged in the splintered part of the post and nearly obscured by the ivy.

“Hold up,” I told Buck. I stepped off the brick walkway and over to the porch. I reached under the fallen roof and plucked a single small piece of metal from among the leaves. It was a small cylinder shape with lines etched on the sides and a rounded tip. It appeared to be made of brass, aged to a dark and dull patina. I held it up. “Is this what I think it is?”

Buck took it from me to get a better look. His gaze went from the object to my face. “It is if you think it’s a bullet.”

The bullet hole had probably made the post vulnerable to moisture and rot. Why was there a bullet in that porch post? “You think someone took potshots at the house?”

“For grins and giggles, you mean?” Buck shrugged as he handed the shell back to me. “Could be. But if that was the case, I would think they’d have shot out the windows.”

Another story, as yet untold. I ran my gaze around the area, but saw no other spent ammunition. I slid the bullet into my tool belt alongside the marble. Between the stain on the floor, the furniture blocking the windows, and the bullet on the porch, this old Victorian seemed to house a lot of secrets.

We returned to my vehicle and waited only a few more minutes before my uncle Roger and cousin Owen arrived in a van adorned with the Whitaker Woodworking logo. Owen, who was a thinner, clean-shaven version of Buck, slid from the passenger seat and bumped knuckles with his brother. Like us, he wore coveralls. Uncle Roger wore steel-toed work boots like the rest of us, but he’d paired them with jeans and a short-sleeved cotton shirt. Though he still performed some of the woodworking tasks himself, more and more he was letting his sons handle the heavy lifting, focusing instead on the administrative tasks and on landing new jobs to expand the business. One day in the not-too-distant future, he’d hand the business over to Buck and Owen and retire.

After greeting Buck and me with a pat on the shoulder, my uncle gazed across the expansive school property. “Sure is pretty out here.”

“Hot, too.” Buck wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow. “I hope the air-conditioning in that school is up to snuff.”

In unison, we shifted our focus to the units atop the school buildings. They appeared rusty and sorely out of date.

Owen snorted. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

Buck turned to his father. “Okay if I go commando under my coveralls?”

“Not on your life, son,” said Uncle Roger.

A late-model bluish-gray Land Rover Sport model SUV turned into the parking lot, its windshield sending up a blinding glare before it rolled to a stop nearby. At the wheel sat Troy Loflin, the developer who’d purchased the school property. Loflin had gray hair, dark skin, and a solid reputation among contractors in the area. He planned to turn the school campus into a resort-style community for those in their golden years, complete with apartments, activity spaces, and an on-site medical facility. He had hired Whitaker Woodworking to perform the carpentry work, even though Uncle Roger’s bid hadn’t been the lowest. Loflin had worked with my uncle on several projects in the past and knew that he and his crews were the most skilled, reliable, and hardworking in the region. Hiring Whitaker Woodworking would mean fewer headaches for him.

Loflin slid down from the driver’s seat, his rubber-soled oxfords hitting the ground with hardly a sound. He wore a short-sleeved cotton shirt similar to my uncle’s, though he’d paired his with a pair of crisp khakis. “Mornin’, folks.” He gave us a smile in greeting as he approached. Once handshakes were exchanged, he waved for us to follow him and turned down a brick path that led to the buildings. “I’ll show you around. We’ll start with the academic building.”

We followed him across the property and past the empty flagpole. The ropes had disintegrated into little more than threads, though the metal swivel snap was intact and clanged against the pole after a light breeze lifted it. We entered through the right side of the double metal doors. Immediately inside, the hallway stretched out to both sides, with the administrative offices directly ahead, behind another set of double doors. These doors were held open with rubber stops.

Loflin led us into the main office. “This area will serve as the administrative base for the retirement community.”

I glanced around. Typewriters and nameplates sat atop each desk. One of the plates read VERNA LAMOINE, SECRETARY TO THE HEADMASTER . Behind her desk was a door that led into a larger office, presumably the headmaster’s. Only a corner of the headmaster’s desk was visible from my vantage point, but I could see a four-drawer wooden filing cabinet. If this had been a public school, the cabinet probably would have been a cheaper metal version.

As we made our way around, I noted many issues that would need to be fixed. Like the Victorian, the school buildings were missing many exterior bricks. The entire HVAC system would have to be replaced, including the ductwork. The electrical system would have to be updated to increase its capacity to meet modern demands. The drafty windows would need to be replaced with newer, energy-efficient models. The ceilings in the academic building were missing tiles and would need to be fully replaced, as would the flooring. I had to wonder if the place had passed the point of no return. Loflin obviously hadn’t thought so, and I certainly didn’t mean to second-guess the guy, but I was curious why he’d want to bring these old buildings back to life when doing so would likely cost more than tearing them down and starting from scratch.

“I’m curious,” I said to Loflin when he stopped to open the door to a classroom. “What made you want to rehab this property? It’s going to need lots of TLC.”

Behind Loflin, Uncle Roger’s eyes went wide and Owen shook his head almost imperceptibly. Buck was more blunt, running a finger across his throat in a gesture that said Don’t go there, dummy! Immediately, I realized my blunder. The carpentry contract could be at stake if this man changed his mind about rehabbing the place or thought I was questioning his judgment. I winced. Should’ve kept my big mouth closed.

Fortunately, Loflin was not put off by my question. Rather, a wistful smile claimed his lips. “Nostalgia, primarily, if I’m being honest. I attended high school here. So did my wife. We graduated in the class of 1979.”

High school sweethearts. Awww. “It’s nice to have a personal connection to a project,” I said, attempting to redeem myself after my gaffe. “It makes the work more meaningful.”

“It certainly does,” Loflin agreed. “I’ve designed my share of multimillion-dollar mansions and, frankly, it’s gotten stale. This place is my passion project. I had a heck of a time finding a nice home for my mother when she entered her golden years a while back. Every decent place has a waiting list a mile long. That’s what gave me the idea of resurrecting Ridgetop Prep and turning it into a retirement community. This project will be my swan song, too. Once this place is finished, I’ll be retiring myself.”

“And moving into the facility?” I asked.

“Someday,” he said, “but not yet. My wife and I plan to spend a few years traveling first, soaking up the sun in Hawaii or the Caribbean.”

He opened the door and held it while the rest of us stepped into what had clearly been an art classroom. The space contained a wild and colorful array of art materials and equipment haphazardly scattered about. Long-dried acrylic paints lined up on a shelf next to a stack of wooden artist palettes and a rack of small brushes, heads up. Easels stood like silent sentries in a circle, paint-spattered canvas tarps on the floor below them. A dozen drafting tables lined the back wall, stools pushed under them, the ceramic cups atop the surfaces holding charcoal pencils.

Faded prints of classic masterpieces hung on the walls. Having never studied art, I could readily identify only a few of them. Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night . Edvard Munch’s The Scream . A group of dancers in blue costumes painted by Degas. The water lilies must be Monet’s. He was famous for them, after all. The top right corner had curled forward on Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, covering half her face, making it appear as if she were coyly hiding and peeking out at us. Given that women were not taken seriously as artists long ago, the offerings by female artists tended to be more recent. A sunflower by Georgia O’Keeffe. A rendering of a rural landscape and farm by Grandma Moses.

I stopped and stared in horror at a print of two identical olive-skinned, dark-haired women. One wore a fancy white dress with a high lace collar, red and yellow flowers embroidered along the hem. The other wore a bright blue and yellow top paired with a green skirt. Both had Frida Kahlo’s trademark unibrow. The woman in the white dress had cut out her heart with a pair of scissors. The scissors dripped blood, staining the fabric of her dress. Her heart had been placed on the chest of the other woman. A long, thick vein ran from the gaping wound on the first woman’s chest to connect her to her twin. “Yikes!”

Owen stepped up next to me and exhaled sharply. “That’s messed up.”

Buck grunted in agreement. “Not exactly the type of painting you’d hang over your fireplace.”

Loflin chuckled. “Gruesome, isn’t it? Frida Kahlo painted several self-portraits. This one is called The Two Fridas . I remember learning about it in art history class. There’s speculation about what it means. She was married to Diego Rivera, but there was constant infidelity in their marriage. Some say the two women represent the Frida that Rivera loved and the Frida that he didn’t, but her diary apparently said the inspiration for the painting came from a childhood friend. Whatever the truth is, the painting seems to express some sort of identity crisis.”

Recalling my teen years, the various looks and personas I’d toyed with, I realized an identity crisis would be relatable to the high school students who’d attended classes at the academy. The teen years were when most people tried to find themselves, discover who they were meant to be.

“The school went through an identity crisis, too,” Loflin said.

He went on to tell us that, while the school had been established as a general college preparatory school and maintained high academic standards, it had evolved over the years into an arts academy after several students went on to singing careers in Nashville or appeared on Broadway and credited the school for giving them a solid foundation on which to build their careers. It wasn’t particularly surprising, given that Tennessee had long been known as a creative state, primarily in the areas of songwriting and music performance. The musical genres spanned the gamut from country songs sung by Dolly Parton to rock and roll tunes belted out by Tina Turner and Elvis to pop dance tunes produced by Justin Timberlake.

“Other graduates established themselves in the art scenes in New York, Chicago, Santa Fe, or Paris.” Loflin gathered tubes of dried-out acrylic paints from a nearby table, tossing them into a trash can as he spoke. “With so many famous alumni having success in artistic fields, a higher percentage of students interested in the arts applied to the school. Over time, Ridgetop Prep transformed into an unofficial arts academy.” He noted that it served as a feeder school for Belmont University in Nashville, where over a third of the students majored in visual or performing arts.

Loflin glanced around for a moment or two, seemingly lost in reverie, before continuing. “Two of my classes were held in this very room. Art and architecture go hand in hand, after all. Can’t do the latter without some knowledge of the former. The art classes gave me a solid basis for pursuing architecture at Pratt Insti tute, though these spacious grounds did not prepare me for the huddled masses riding the G train through Brooklyn. And just try to find a place that serves grits or biscuits and gravy in New York City. Impossible.” He circled a finger in the air to indicate the room. “Many of these classrooms will be put back to use for art, music, and dramatic pursuits. Others will become a hair salon, a barber shop, a yoga studio, and an in-house convenience store of sorts. Residents will be able to get many services and products on site without having to drive into town. The remaining rooms will be turned into medical and administrative offices.”

Loflin led us out of the room. Workers in coveralls had already begun the demolition work in the classrooms, and various items lined the hallways waiting to be removed from the building. The banging and scraping noises that signaled active demo work echoed along the corridor.

Loflin gave one of the crew a pat on the back as he passed by. “Keep up the good work, guys.”

As we made our way down the hall, we passed several large posters promoting the school’s spring production of The Music Man . I’d seen the play back in college, when my university’s theater department had put it on. I’d enjoyed the show, especially the lively music. My favorite song had been “Shipoopi,” though “Seventy-Six Trombones” was a close second. Per the information printed on the poster, the performance had been held on Friday, May 14. The school year would have ended shortly thereafter, at the end of May or early June. An amusing, energetic performance like The Music Man would have been a fun way to bring the academic year to a close.

As we continued on, we came upon the boys’ rest room. The door was propped open with a five-gallon paint bucket. A crew member stepped out, holding a metal door he’d removed from a bathroom stall. He leaned it up against the wall before disappearing back into the restroom.

As we slowed to ease around the debris, I glanced over at the stall door. The surface was marred by graffiti written in marker or scratched into the metal surface. There was the obligatory phallus, of course, though the student who drew it showed much more artistic talent than in typical depictions. The appendage appeared droopy and despondent, a poignant, problemed penis. A bit of gossip was etched into the metal in large letters by some type of sharp object. MR. NOY AND MRS. FINSTER ARE SCREWING . I had no idea who Mr. Noy and Mrs. Finster were, but if they were indeed having sexual relations, the matter might have remained secret had the maintenance staff smoothed the etching with a bit of sandpaper rather than merely painting over it.

We continued down the hall. As we passed the library, I looked through an interior window. The school motto was painted on the wall behind the checkout desk: WONDER. DISCOVER. ASPIRE. ACHIEVE. A shelf behind the circulation desk was filled with yearbooks dating back decades, probably to the first one the school had produced.

I noted the shelves in the greater library remained loaded with books, both fiction and nonfiction reference books. “Will the bookshelves be replaced?”

“No,” Loflin said. “Those shelves were bolted to the floor and walls to keep them from falling over on the kids. They’d be a bear to remove. Besides, they’re still in good shape. Some sanding and a fresh coat of stain will bring them up to snuff. We plan to leave the library mostly as is, though we’ll put in new carpeting and buy new tables and chairs.”

The library would be a perfect spot for the retirees who’d reside at Ridgetop Village to relax with a good read, meet for a book club, or work quietly on a writing project, maybe a memoir for their children and grandchildren.

We continued down the hall to a gymnasium with basketball goals at either end and retractable wooden bleachers along the sides. Scaffolding had been erected under the electronic scoreboard. Loflin informed us that the space would remain a gym, though one set of bleachers would be removed to make way for a heated lap pool for future residents. “Many older folks like to swim or do water aerobics. They’re good forms of exercise. Easy on the joints.”

We exited through the wide doors at the back of the gym into a bright summer day that had become much hotter since Buck and I had arrived earlier that morning. Even so, the temperature felt milder than it normally did by this time of day back in Nashville.

“It’s a beautiful setting,” I noted as we walked. “Seems cooler than the city, too.”

Loflin explained why the climate was more temperate here. “The school sits on the edge of the Highland Rim. We’re at a higher elevation here than in Nashville. The cooler temps made Ridgetop a popular vacation spot in the late 1800s and early 1900s. There was a resort in the area back in the day called the Enclosure. Wealthy folks from Nashville spent their summers there. The George O’Bryan house is the only remaining property from the resort, but it’s been well maintained. There was also a sanitarium to treat folks with tuberculosis.”

He went on to tell us about a railroad tunnel in town known as the L&N tunnel. At the time it was built, it was one of the longest self-supporting tunnels in the world. “It’s about a half-hour hike from here to get up to the tunnel. Nice scenery along the way. Worth a trip if you get a chance. When I was in school here, the fellas and I used to go out there on weekends. Wasn’t much else to do around here, unless you took the school bus into Nashville. They ran it twice a day on Saturdays so students could go to art museums or the movies, attend live stage shows, do some shopping, have a little free time. The boys and I used to call it the prison bus, because it always seemed to arrive to take us back to school too early.” His face took on a faraway look again as, once more, he was lost in reverie. “Good times.”

Loflin led us down a stone walkway to one of the dormitories. We entered through double doors in the center of the long building, and turned down the left wing. A corkboard was affixed to each door. Tacked to the corkboards were comic strips cut from newspapers, hand-drawn art, and magazine photos featuring early-’80s heartthrobs in their prime. Barry Gibb. Rick Springfield. Matt Dillon. The photos told me this building had been the girls’ dormitory. Purple marker on a dry erase board read WE DID IT! SRS ’82!

The message confirmed what Loflin had told us earlier, that the class of 1982 had been the last to grace these halls before the school was permanently closed. On another dry erase board, someone had drawn a tombstone adorned with RIP RIDGETOP PREP.

Loflin stopped at an open door and gestured into the room. “Some of these rooms will be turned into independent living apartments. Others will be made into assisted-living studio-style units. The other resi dence hall will be utilized for skilled nursing and memory care. Residents will be provided every level of support they might need.”

We returned to the main doors and went outside. Loflin took us on a tour of the extensive grounds, which included an amphitheater, an overgrown garden, and a sports field encircled by a crumbling asphalt track and flanked by metal bleachers covered in rust and dents. We continued on to the back of the property, where a murky pond took up an acre or so, providing a home to a pair of ducks and a turtle that scurried into the pond as we approached. A wide wooden dock that had once stretched fifteen feet or so into the water had succumbed to the elements, rotting away, the far end disappearing into the swamp. Nearby stood a small, rudimentary observatory with a domed metal roof.

In addition to being a homicide detective, my husband was an amateur astronomer. In fact, we’d spent a good part of our honeymoon stargazing in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I’d since become a bit of an astronomy buff myself, probably more because I enjoyed spending quiet time alone in the dark with Collin than due to any deep interest in the subject. Still, this little science shack had me intrigued. “Can we see inside?”

“Sure.” Loflin fingered through keys on a large ring, found the one for the observatory, and unlocked it.

I stepped inside to see a poster of a wild-haired Albert Einstein on the wall along with a quote: “Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity. And I’m not sure about the former.” I couldn’t help but snicker.

The five of us squished shoulder-to-shoulder inside. The movable roof panels had rusted along the seams and took some effort to open, but a healthy squirt of WD-40 could fix that problem in no time. Collin would love to see this.

I turned to Loflin. “Are you going to keep this observatory or tear it down?”

“We’ll leave it up,” he said. “It’s a unique feature, and I expect there will be a few armchair astronomers among the residents who’d enjoy it.”

As we left the observatory, a frog scolded us with an irritated ribbit for invading his turf. He hopped into the pond with a loud plop, sending ripples across the surface. Thinking back to the Monet print we’d just seen, I said, “Water lilies would be beautiful here.” Not only would the plants help clean the water by absorbing nutrients from it, they’d oxygenate it for any fish that might be living in the pond, and provide shade for them, as well.

Loflin’s head bobbed. “That’s a great suggestion, Whitney. I’ll mention it to the landscape crew.”

As we headed back to the parking lot, I pointed through the trees to the Victorian house Buck and I had explored earlier. “That house must have been beautiful back in its prime.”

“It certainly was.” Loflin’s face formed a somber frown. “It was the headmaster’s residence.”

What’s the frown for? Curious, I pried a bit. “What do you plan to do with it?”

“I’ll get an antiques dealer out to take a look at the furniture,” Loflin said. “Once the house is cleared, it will be demolished.”

My stomach clenched at the thought of the once-beautiful old house losing its life to a proverbial wrecking ball. More likely, the place would be knocked over with a bulldozer and demolition excavator. “If you’re rehabbing the rest of the school property, why aren’t you going to save the house, too?”

“I thought it might be obvious,” Loflin said, though his tone was without malice. “It’s pretty far gone. The foundation has settled unevenly. Besides, after what happened there, I think it’s best to be done with it and move on.”

Aha! I knew there was a story in that house. “What do you mean?” I asked. “What happened there?”

Loflin heaved a heavy breath. “The headmaster and his wife died of gunshot wounds in his study.”

I reflexively jerked my head back and gasped. “They were murdered?”

Loflin lifted one shoulder slightly in a noncommittal shrug. “The sheriff’s department never issued an official pronouncement on the case, but from what little information was released, it looked like the headmaster murdered his wife, then turned his gun on himself.”

“That’s terrible!” My stomach went queasy. The stains on the floor. Oh, my gosh! They likely were bloodstains, after all. And maybe the windows hadn’t been blocked to keep anyone out . Maybe they’d been blocked to keep someone in . Had the headmaster put the furniture in front of the windows to keep his wife from escaping? These horrifying thoughts sent a chill up my spine. I also wondered about the bullet I’d found, the one tucked away in my tool belt. Could the headmaster have fired it? I debated showing it to Loflin, but decided I’d run things by Collin first. “Why was the case never closed?”

“Can’t say.” Loflin straightened, as if steeling himself to share the details. “It happened after my wife and I graduated, but it was still shocking. Ridgetop Prep was like a big extended family, so losing Dr. and Mrs. Fin ster really hit home. We could hardly believe it. Didn’t want to, really.” He cleared his throat, emotion getting to him even after all these years. “Mrs. Finster taught voice and piano, and led the choir. She helped direct the musical theater performances, too. I took choir as an elective my freshman year. Didn’t have a lick of vocal talent, but Mrs. Finster said my enthusiasm made up for my shortage of skill.” At the memory, a soft smile tugged at his lips. “Not sure I believed her, but she had a way of making all of the students feel valued and special, regardless of their abilities. Everyone adored her, the other teachers included.”

His comment reminded me of the etched words I’d spotted earlier on the door of the bathroom stall— Mr. Noy and Mrs. Finster are screwing. Had adoration turned to adultery? Could an affair have led to the tragedy? Though I was tempted to ask, I didn’t want to sound accusatory, especially with Loflin being so fond of Mrs. Finster. Why sully her memory or risk alienating Loflin? Instead, I turned the conversation back to the house. “Why didn’t the Finsters’ heirs take the antiques?”

“The house had been furnished by the academy,” Loflin explained, “so the furniture didn’t belong to the Finsters. They never had children, so I’m not sure who their heirs might have been. Their parents, if they were still alive, I suppose. Or maybe their siblings, if they had any. I seem to recall Mrs. Finster mentioning a younger sister, but it’s been so long my recollection is hazy. I don’t recall Dr. Finster talking about his family. He wasn’t a man of many words—at least not spoken words. He saved his words for the page.”

It was clear the discussion was making Loflin sad and uncomfortable, so none of us pushed for more details. Still, as tragic as the deaths had been, it would be unfair for the house to pay the ultimate price for the crimes of its inhabitants, wouldn’t it?

I exchanged glances with Buck. He knew I hated to see old structures torn down when new life could be breathed into them instead, and he generally felt the same. But the tightness in his face told me he’d rather not entertain this potential project. Should I let it go?

I glanced over at the house again. Call me crazy, but when a gust of wind came out of nowhere and tousled both the ivy and my hair, I felt that the house was trying to get my attention, whispering in my ear, asking me to save it, to rewrite its story and give it a happy ending.

I turned back to Loflin and came clean. “I hope this won’t upset you, but Buck and I arrived early for our appointment this morning. I saw the house, and since we had some time to kill”— Ugh. Poor choice of words! —“I took a look inside the house.” I didn’t mention that I’d had to remove the deadbolt to gain access, or that Buck had come in, too. I wasn’t about to throw my cousin under the bus. “It’s got some beautiful features. I noticed that the floors have settled unevenly, as you mentioned, but the walls are still straight. Buck and I have handled several rehab projects, and I think the house could be saved and repurposed. If you don’t have a use for it in the retirement community, would you consider selling it to us?”

“You sound just like my wife,” Loflin replied with a soft, amused snort. “She doesn’t want it to be torn down, either.”

“Women love Victorians. What can I say?” I raised my palms and offered a hopeful smile.

Loflin eyed me for a long moment, mulling over my proposition. “Tell you what. I’m not going to make any promises now, but if you make me an offer, I’ll give it some thought. My only stipulation would be that the house will need its own access from the main road and that you don’t cut down any healthy trees between the house and the retirement village.”

I had no problem with either stipulation. “Thank you, Mr. Loflin. I’ll work up an offer and get back to you ASAP.”

“All right.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “In the interest of full disclosure, I feel I should tell you that one of my guys swears he heard footsteps in the house. Two more said they saw weird moving shadows. Just thought I should mention it in case you’re superstitious.”

Hmm. So, I’m not the only one who’d got an eerie vibe in the place.

With that, Loflin begged off, shaking everyone’s hand in goodbye. I turned and took another look at the house. A second gust of wind came from behind it, blowing the ivy forward, making it appear as if the house were giving me a bow in gratitude.