Her father, Marcus, answered from a night shift at the hospital.
He sounded exhausted and frightened.
“She’s with you?”
“She went home an hour ago.”
“Celeste told us you were trying to drag her into a lawsuit.”
“I’m trying to keep my daughter from losing something she earned.”
Marcus sighed so deeply I heard a trolley wheel squeal in the background.
“Then you should know Celeste handles our family bills,” he said.
I stared at the phone.
“Why?”
“She set up an education fund after my wife lost her job.”
“Do you control the account?”
He did not answer.
That silence opened another door in the case.
A week before the mailbox was broken, Celeste had held a fundraising luncheon at the Bellhaven Civic Hall.
The invitations described her council as a bridge between promising young musicians and wealthy patrons.
The hall belonged to the town, and the council rented it at a discount through a public benefit program.
I had never attended one of those luncheons because my shifts conflicted, and I assumed charity dinners were dull affairs full of polite speeches.
Now I obtained the event program from a parent who had volunteered at the door.
It listed three students as recipients of individual study grants.
Lila’s name appeared under a program labeled The Quiet House, a new work inspired by resilience.
Sophie’s name was absent entirely.
At the bottom of the page was a claim that each work had been independently reviewed for originality.
I asked the volunteer what that review involved.
She laughed without humor.
“Celeste reviewing Celeste’s paperwork, as far as I could tell.”
“Did anyone challenge her?”
“One donor asked where the grant money went.”
“What happened?”
“She stopped inviting him.”
The volunteer gave me the donor’s name, Julian Beckett, and told me not to mention hers.
I promised, though I was beginning to dislike the number of people who needed protection merely to tell the truth.
Julian lived above a hardware store in a neighboring town.
He was seventy-eight, a former band director, and the kind of man who kept music stands in every corner of his apartment.
He invited me inside after I explained why I had come.
“I know Celeste,” he said.
“Everybody who taught within fifty miles knows Celeste.”
“Then you know the good things she’s done.”
“I know the concerts she puts on.”
Julian pointed to a framed photograph of children playing in a gym after a major winter storm.
