LITMIR.BIZ

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Miss Grayling understood that such an aspect of one’s private life was no longer considered shameful. Besides, Jarrett had never kept his sexuality a secret, living openly with that flamboyant art critic in New York City the way he did.

      Whatever could Mrs. Bellingsworth be talking about?

      “You see, Miss Grayling.” Mrs. Bellingsworth lifted one of the tea cakes from the plate and smoothed the icing with her finger. “What with the new sewer pipes being laid, quite a bit of excavation has been done. Much of it in your yard. You’d be amazed at the things those backhoes can uncover.”

      Miss Grayling narrowed her eyes and glared at her hostess. “The excavator turns up rocks and soil. Clay drainpipes too, which get broken in the process.”

      “Of course rocks and soil and broken pipes. But you know, many people bury the oddest things in their yards. Things they never expect to be unearthed.”

      “Oh?” Was Mrs. Bellingsworth referring to something in her yard? Surely not.

      Miss Grayling cast her mind back. What could it be?

      “If only they knew where to dig,” Mrs. Bellingsworth said, licking frosting from her fingers.

      The sandwich turned to paste in Miss Grayling’s mouth. She swallowed hard. “Exactly what are you implying, Mrs. Bellingsworth?”

      Her hostess smiled slyly. “Your cousin came to spend the winter, as I recall. A tiny little thing, wasn’t she? Plump and rather sickly.” She took another sip of tea, studying Miss Grayling over the rim of her cup. “Now what was her name?”

      “Mildred,” Miss Grayling supplied, casting her mind back six decades. Poor Mildred cried a lot, Miss Grayling recalled, and seldom ventured outside. As the days passed and the unhappy girl grew even plumper, Mildred had hidden away in her room, too embarrassed even to come downstairs.

      One spring evening Doctor Fitzhugh was called to the house. As soon as he arrived, twelve-year-old Miss Grayling was banished to her room, but early the following morning, awakened by her father’s voice wafting up from the foyer, she arose and padded barefoot down the hall. Peering over the bannister she heard the doctor say, “Stillborn, way before its time. But perhaps for the best.”

      Her father placed a hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “We’ll say no more about this, shall we, Fitz?” In his other hand he held a narrow white envelope.

      Dr. Fitzhugh tucked the envelope into his inside breast pocket. “Most unfortunate, indeed. You will see to the disposal of the remains?”

      Miss Grayling’s father nodded. “Leave everything to me.”

      Miss Grayling later realized that Mildred had been pregnant. Now she worried that her father might have buried the baby in the side yard where its tiny bones had been uncovered by the construction crew.

      Nonsense, she chided herself silently. If the workmen had uncovered a body, the police would already be investigating. Besides, the tragedy was an old one. Her mother, her father, cousin Mildred, and the doctor: none of the people involved were still alive. So why would Mrs. Bellingsworth think this would matter to Miss Grayling?

      As if reading her thoughts, Mrs. Bellingsworth said, “You never married, did you, Miss Grayling?”

      Miss Grayling had to admit that she hadn’t.

      “I always found that strange. You had so many suitors in high school.”

      Miss Grayling’s teacup rattled in its saucer. Was Mrs. Bellingsworth implying that Miss Grayling herself had given birth to the unfortunate baby?

      Thinking about the way babies were conceived, not to mention born, Miss Grayling shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She had no first-hand knowledge of the process, of course, but still…

      Mrs. Bellingsworth sat in her wheelchair, like a spider watching an innocent insect approach her web. “Perhaps it would be worth something to you to keep the situation private, Miss Grayling. I’m sure we could arrange to do that, for a certain, shall we say, fee.” She eyed the tiny cake and popped it into her mouth whole.

      “Blackmail?” Miss Grayling was horrified. She wanted to stomp out of the house, but her legs felt paralyzed.

      “Blackmail is such an ugly word, don’t you think?” Mrs. Bellingsworth leaned back in the wheelchair. “I prefer to call it small compensation for my discretion.”

      “Small compensation!”

      “Shall we say—five thousand dollars a month?”

      “Five thousand dollars a month!”

      “To one of your apparent means, that should be quite affordable. Of course, if I have miscalculated, and that is beyond what you feel you can afford, we can negotiate.”

      “Negotiate!” Miss Grayling seemed to have lost her power of speech beyond inanely echoing Mrs. Bellingsworth’s ludicrous words.

      “I have no desire to leave you penniless. If you bring a copy of your income tax return to me next week, we can go over it. Should five thousand dollars prove too much, we could settle for, say, sixty-five percent of your income. Most people would consider that a bargain.”

      At last Miss Grayling was able to force herself to her feet. “I will see myself out, Mrs. Bellingsworth. Good day.”

      Mrs. Bellingsworth chuckled. “Think about my offer, Miss Grayling! I am sure you wouldn’t want the entire world to know what you’ve kept hidden for so long. Come back next week at the same time, and we will resume our discussions. In the meantime, give some thought to what I have said. A small price to pay for peace of mind.”

      Holding her head high and her back stiff, Miss Grayling marched to the front door. She retrieved her umbrella, opened the door, stepped out, and closed the door smartly behind herself.

      Blackmail! This was unconscionable. Miss Grayling would not permit herself to be victimized in such a tawdry manner.

      Could she even afford five thousand dollars a month? Her father had long ago arranged for an accounting firm to pay her bills and forward money to her on a monthly basis. Miss Grayling withdrew only enough to cover her expenses. Much of that money still sat accumulating interest in the bank.

      That, however, was not the point. One simply did not dabble in blackmail, either as the instigator or the target.

      At home, Miss Grayling was too upset to even think about supper. She fed her cat and made a cup of tea, which grew cold in its cup.

      Tea! Mrs. Bellingsworth had used a courteous invitation as a means of perpetrating an indignity.

      This outrage could not go unaddressed. Miss Grayling would have to do something about it. She knew she couldn’t sleep until she figured out what.

      As the evening wore on, the wind died down, the rain turned to a steady drizzle, and Miss Grayling made her plans. She changed into the trousers she wore for gardening and pulled on her rubber boots. Was her old raincoat up to the task of shielding her from the wet and cold? Perhaps not, but she would make do. A scarf wrapped around her neck would help. She took two flashlights, one big and one small, and a small sharp knife. She tucked several pairs of the rubber gloves she used to protect her hands when she washed dishes into her pocket. From a hook in the pantry, she lifted a large ring of skeleton keys. Miss Grayling had no idea what most of them unlocked, but she remembered the old caretaker carrying them on his belt until he died.

      After turning off all the lights except for a dim one in kitchen, she stepped out onto the back porch into the pitch-dark night.

      As soon as she rounded the side of her house, though, the streetlights provided sufficient illumination for her to proceed if she was careful. Since the last thing she wanted to do was call attention to herself, she kept the flashlights in her pocket. Stepping carefully, she made her way around the trenches.

      Keeping to the side of the street away from the streetlights and staying in the shadows as much as

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