Read The Angel and the Jabberwocky Murders for Free Online Page B

get them inside to Blythe,” she said. “She’ll know what to do.”
    â€œBlythe?” A happy name. I liked the sound of it.
    â€œBlythe Cornelius, Dean Holland’s secretary—has an apartment right here in the dorm. We can call the police from there.”
    Blythe Cornelius was sort of an unofficial housemother, Joy Ellen explained. Many of the girls called her Aunt Shug because of her frequent use of the affectionate term and would sometimes come to her for advice. A calming influence, she said. She sounded good to me.
    â€œHey! What took you so long? The others are all safely back in the nest, so I thought I’d see what was holding the rest of you up.” Ellis hurried toward us with a huge black umbrella, then stopped abruptly, seeing our faces. “What’s wrong? Are you all right? Is somebody hurt?”
    At that, Paula burst into tears again and I drew Ellis aside to explain what had happened.
    â€œOh, dear God, not that! Not that!” Ellis shut her eyes, her jaw clinched tight, and for a few seconds I thought she was going to break down, too. I should have known better. My friend Ellis Saxon is made of sterner stuff. “I don’t suppose anybody has called the police?” she asked.
    With a dazed expression, Joy Ellen took a cell phone from her jacket pocket. “I had this with me all along…why didn’t I use it?”
    â€œWe had more important things to do,” I told her. “Like getting these girls back safely, not to mention warm and dry.” I began to walk faster. “Come on, let’s get them inside.”
    Blythe Cornelius’s apartment was on the main floor of Emma P. Harris Hall and Joy Ellen didn’t even take the time to ring the bell, but pounded on the secretary’s door and called out her name.
    â€œHold on a minute! I’m coming, I’m coming!” Blythe’s vexed expression vanished when she saw us standing there and Miriam immediately threw herself into the woman’s arms. “What on earth has happened here?” Her question was directed at Joy Ellen as she drew us into the room. “Miriam? Paula? What’s wrong? Why, sugar, you look as pale as a ghost! Are you all right?”
    Blythe Cornelius looked to be about my age, which is fifty-six, or maybe a little older. It was difficult to tell because she has that fine bone structure and smooth complexion that would probably keep her looking youthful for years to come, but she had made no attempt to disguise the gray hair that covered her head in a mass of short curls.
    A gray cat that had been curled asleep in the armchair suddenly leaped to the floor and darted underneath the sofa. “Here, sugar, let’s get off those wet shoes first,” Blythe commanded, trying to straighten the bifocals Miriam had knocked awry, “then tell me what’s going on.”
    And so we did. Ellis spread out a stack of newspapers where she piled soggy shoes and socks in a heap while I collected the wet jackets and stood wondering what to do with them. Joy Ellen waved her hand for quiet and turned away from the noise and confusion to speak calmly with the police. The students slumped side by side on Blythe’s blue-sprigged chintz sofa, making two large wet spots, no doubt, while the rest of us dripped on her soft gray carpet.
    If that bothered Blythe Cornelius, she didn’t let on. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she said with a tremor in her voice. “That poor child! Who in the world…? And right here at our own Sarah Bedford.” For a few seconds she stood there looking about the small living room as if she wanted to drink in its comfort: the mahogany writing desk, corner bookshelves filled to overflowing, family photographs that cluttered every surface. And apparently it gave her strength because she quickly drew an afghan around the two girls, straightened, and started for the kitchen. “Our duty now