her maiden name was? It might have been Talley, but not necessarily.”
“No-o, I’m sorry.”
“Well, that one’s easy, anyway,” I said. I went out to the desk and called City Hall for the name of the local Superintendent of Schools. He was a Mr. J. P. Wardlaw. I looked up his number, and called him at home.
“I’m trying lo locate a Miss Talley, or Miss Tanner,” I said. “She teaches one of the elementary grades here, or used to, and I thought perhaps you could help me.”
“Hmm, no,” he replied, “I don’t have any records here at home, of course, the name’s not familiar at all.”
I laughed sheepishly. “Well, to tell the truth, Mr. Wardlaw I could be all fouled up on it. You see, she’s an old friend of my wife’s was supposed to call on on my way through here, but I’ve lost the slip she gave me. All I can remember is that her first name was Cynthia and I think she taught the third grade—”
“Wait. I know who you mean. That would be Mrs. Sprague. Cynthia Sprague. She’s married now to a Mr. Redfield. Kelly Redfield. You can find her in the book.”
“Thanks a million,” I said.
I called the garage to see if my car was ready yet. The girl was sorry, but there’d been a little delay in getting the radiator from Tallahassee. It should be ready tomorrow morning. She was sorry again. I came in on the second chorus and was sorry with her.
I went back to the bedroom. Georgia Langston looked at me inquiringly. I couldn’t figure out why just seeing her always gave me a lift. “Besides being a very honest and deserving girl with exquisite feet,” I said, “you also have a station wagon I’ve been driving for the past few days. Can I drive it again?”
She smiled. “I’m an invalid; so how could I stop you? Where are you going?”
“Warren Springs,” I said. “Cynthia Redfield was married before. To a man named Sprague. Somewhere, if we go back far enough, we might find a tie-in with Strader. If I’m late getting back, keep Josie here with you.”
I was going out the door when she said, “Bill.” I turned.
“Be careful,” she said simply.
I was within ten miles of Warren Springs before it dawned on me at last that I was an idiot on a wild-goose chase. I hadn’t even thought of it before, but there was no chance at all Cynthia Redfield could have been the woman who called me on the phone to set me up in that barn. Her voice was deeper, down in the contralto range, and the inflection and accent were entirely different.
Well, meat-head, I thought, law enforcement certainly didn’t lose anything when you got out. I shrugged and went on; there was no point in turning back now.
* * *
Warren Springs appeared to be slightly larger than Galicia. It was built around a square where magnificent old trees did their best to hide a turn-of-the-century courthouse that set your teeth on edge. At two-fifteen on a Thursday afternoon in July it was less than hectic. I had no difficulty in finding a parking place, and ducked into the nearest drugstore. Ordering the inevitable coke, I went back to the phone booth. There were two Spragues listed. There was no answer at the first, and at the other I raised a charmer who sounded as if she were talking through a wide gap in her front teeth and who said Mommy was gone to the store and that she’d never heard of Cynthia Sprague.
I got some more dimes and tackled it through the Superintendent of Schools. When I’d run down his name, I called his home. He was out of town, and his wife didn’t know whether a Cynthia Sprague had ever taught here or not.
“What you ought to do is call my husband’s secretary,” she said. “She’s been with him for fifteen years or longer, and she’d know whatever it is you want.”
“Fine,” I said. “Where can I get hold of her?”
“Her name’s Ellen Beasley, and in the summer she always works vacation relief at the telephone-company business office. They’re on Stuart Street, just off the north side of the square.”
“Thank you very much,” I said.
Ellen Beasley proved to be unmarried and forty-ish, with a petite face, a small bud of a mouth, and earnest but friendly blue eyes. She looked up at me from her desk and smiled inquiringly.