LITMIR.BIZ

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      Loyola University Maryland

      4501 N. Charles Street

      Baltimore, MD 21210

      410.617.5265 • 410.617.2198 (fax)

      www.ApprenticeHouse.com

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      To Harold, with me at the Springs and at the firefly rocks.

      Acknowledgements

      Thanks are due to many fine readers including Susan Scarf Merrell, Judy Karasik, Virginia Hartman, Jody Hobbs Hesler, Katey Schultz, and friends at The Bennington Writing Seminars, The Bethesda Writers Center, and The Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. Linguist Barbara Smith Vargo’s experienced eye and ear were invaluable. Gerrie Sturman of Goldfarb & Associates believed in this book. Vicki Blier, Beth Hess, my husband Harold, and my children Martha, Tim, and Rebecca Pskowski believed in me. I am grateful to the memory of my late parents, John and Nelle Campbell, who introduced my brother Don and me to the rugged beauty of the foothills of the Alleghenies in Pennsylvania, near my paternal grandfather’s birthplace. There are many stories and mysteries in that region; this book was inspired by the Bedford Springs Hotel, almost a ruin as I began to write; restored and re-opened before I finished.

      Prologue

      April 1985

      Clear Spring Friends School is rich in everything money can’t buy. But sometimes, money doesn’t hurt. I needed the meeting with Dick Wilson to go well.

      “He’s getting out of the car,” I said to Sally. “Wish I’d worn my suit.”

      My secretary stood beside me at the window, looking down into the parking lot.

      “You’re fine,” Sally said. “Just tuck in your shirt, Hazel.” I was in my white Mexican market blouse and slacks. “Check out his bald spot.”

      Dick was bending over his silver Mercedes, leaning in the window. I could see his daughter, slumped in the passenger seat.

      “She’s in the car,” I said. “So she’s better.”

      “If she was sick,” Sally said.

      “Let’s hope she’s not pregnant,” I said.

      “No boyfriend.”

      “So?”

      Dick pounded on the roof of the car.

      “Poor kid,” I said. “No wonder she’s the way she is.”

      “Here he comes,” said Sally. “Do you want coffee?”

      “I want a drink.”

      “Hazel.” Sally looked at me, hard. She has one blue eye, and one green, wears her long gray hair loose, doesn’t use and doesn’t need make up. I call her the Quaker Angel.

      The fire door at the bottom of the stairs groaned open. Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

      I retreated into my office. Sally and I share a suite on the second floor. The building was the dorm originally, until we built the new one. Weekday boarding for kids like Louisa is our niche market. And revenue stream.

      “Good morning, Dick,” I heard Sally say. “Coffee?” We go by first names here, Quaker custom. No one ever calls me Mrs. Shaw. Almost no one knows I was married briefly forty years ago, when I was just a bit older than my own high school seniors.

      “No, thanks,” he said, marching into my office. He didn’t shake my hand, squeezed his lobbyist’s expense account girth into the chair.

      “Dick,” I said, “We’ve been concerned about Louisa.”

      “That’s why I’m here.”

      Again. The girl had generated trouble from her first week as a transfer last year when she accused her roommate of stealing her ring. Louisa went home for the weekend and returned wearing the ring—without apologizing to her roommate.

      “I hope it’s nothing serious. She’s missed almost a week of classes, Dick. It’s Thursday.”

      “I know what day it is,” he said. His pale eyes were chilly and smug. He was enjoying this. He’s like this with her, I thought.

      “What is it? We want to be of help.”

      “Then get rid of the teacher who attacked her.”

      “What do you mean?” My stomach clenched.

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