working-class Georgia kids looking for a smaller school closer to home than UGA in Athens.
Harper wasn’t immediately certain which one the neighbors meant.
With quick sure movements, she typed Whitney’s name and the name of the local college into the computer. The search brought up a page on the Savannah State University website with an image of a slim, polished woman. Her shoulder-length hair was honey blonde, forming a striking contrast with her warm, brown eyes. She had a wide, Miss America smile.
Under her picture the caption read: ‘Marie Whitney, Vice Chair for Development and Enrichment’.
Leaning closer, Harper stared at the image. It was hard to believe this was the same woman she’d seen earlier that day.
Death takes away everything that makes you distinctive. Everything that makes you who you are.
Dead, Whitney had been anonymous. Pale skin on the cold floor – a hand reaching out imploringly.
Alive, she’d looked electric. She was almost hypnotically beautiful – cinnamon eyes and flawless golden skin warm and glowing with life.
If Harper was looking for parallels between Whitney and her mother, she wasn’t going to find any in their appearance.
Her mother had been beautiful, yes. But Harper could hardly remember a time when she wore makeup. Her long red hair had usually been twisted up and held haphazardly in place with a paintbrush or pencil. She’d favored faded jeans with torn knees and was usually barefoot when she worked.
There was nothing to connect her, physically at least, to this polished woman.
Still, there were obvious elements linking the two. They were both in their thirties. Both were mothers. Both were about the same age when they were killed. Both were stabbed multiple times in their homes in daylight crimes. Both were found naked, on the kitchen floor. Both were discovered by their twelve-year-old daughters after school.
It wasn’t enough to go on and Harper knew it. But it wasn’t nothing, either.
‘Is that her?’
Baxter’s sharp voice made Harper jump. The editor had walked up without her noticing. She peered over her shoulder at the image on the screen.
‘Uh … Yeah. That’s her,’ Harper said, clearing her throat. ‘I’m trying to figure out what Development and Enrichment means.’
‘Money,’ Baxter said. ‘It’s a long-winded way of saying “fund-raising”.’ She straightened. ‘Find DJ and get him to call the university and ask permission for us to use that.’ The editor tapped her fingertip against Marie Whitney’s face. ‘Tell him to get a high-res version for print. I’ll let art know.’
She hustled off, her low heels clicking on the terrazzo floor.
When she was gone, Harper didn’t immediately search for DJ. Instead, she searched for more information on Whitney.
She was mentioned in a few articles about the college, mostly as a minor player. There was only one piece of any length – an over-excited article in the university newspaper, The Caller. It had been written two years earlier and was headlined: Whitney Brings in Big Bucks.
Fundraiser extraordinaire, Marie Whitney, 32, is being credited with organizing a campaign that has so far brought a whopping $4.3 million to the school’s coffers.
Whitney has arranged gala balls, celebrity concerts and art sales, together with an online campaign. Thanks in large part to her efforts, the school has exceeded its annual fundraising goal of $3.8 million by over half a million dollars.
Ever cheerful, Whitney is popular with other workers in the Development Office, for her bubbly personality as well as her can-do attitude.
‘Everyone loves Marie,’ her boss Ellen Janeworth said, when interviewed. ‘She’s a dream to work with. There’s nothing she won’t do for the university.’
Whitney told us she was delighted by her recent success.
‘I loved my time at college,’ she said, smiling. ‘It was the high point of my life. I want to make sure future students – including my own daughter – have the chances I had.’
The article was illustrated with a candid picture of Marie, standing on the portico of the university’s administration building. She wore a white pencil skirt and a blue, snug-fitting top. Her skin was unlined. Her lipstick was a conservative, delicate pink. She was smiling that same perfect smile.
Harper stared at that picture for a long time.
There was so much that didn’t make sense. What connected Whitney to her mother? Who would have wanted to kill both of them?
And, if the same person killed them both, what had made him come back now?
Two hours later, Harper walked out of the darkening city through the heavy glass door into the police station. The entrance hall was empty at this hour and her footsteps echoed in the hollow quiet. Her ankle still ached from her fall earlier, but she was no longer limping. The air conditioning felt like ice against her skin.
Dwayne Josephs looked up from the screen of the small TV that sat underneath the top of the broad modern reception desk. Seeing her, his face brightened.
‘Harper! I heard y’all got y’allselves a live one,’ he said, his tone meaningful. ‘Got everyone here in an uproar. Like someone killed the president.’
Dwayne was dark-skinned and as skinny as daytime receptionist Darlene was curvy. He was six feet tall but his arms and legs still seemed too long for his body, a fact that imbued him with the endearing gawkiness of a teenager, although Harper reckoned he had to be at least thirty-five.
She’d known him for years and she knew how much he loved to gossip. At the moment, she needed information, and she was hoping he’d have something she could use. But she had to play this carefully. As much as Dwayne loved gossip, he also hated breaking the rules. So the trick was to get him to talk without realizing he was saying anything he shouldn’t.
Harper tried to strike a note somewhere between interested and not too interested.
‘Really? Why are they in an uproar?’
Leaning against the counter, Dwayne lowered his voice conspiratorially.
‘Well. Blazer went through here a while ago cussin’ a bluestreak,’ he confided with breathless reproach. ‘F-this and F-that.’
Aware that Dwayne had a close and fervent relationship with his church, Harper shook her head disapprovingly.
‘Did he now? My goodness, that’s not like him.’ It was like Blazer actually, but she also knew Dwayne liked to think the best of everyone. ‘What was he so upset about?’
‘Said the TV reporters were vipers crawlin’ all over his crime scene and talkin’ the b-word.’
It
