Footprints by Kay Cleaver Strahan

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Wednesday, October, 17, 1900.

Dear Judy: When I wrote to you, day before yesterday, I thought that I was through with this letter writing. I wrote, then, in the rôle of Mr. Wise-guy, scorning you and the rest of the family for not serenely knowing that one of the Quilters was a murdering cur. Scorning even Grandfather; or, if not quite as brash as that, accusing him of senility for using that brave old mind of his to reach for the truth. No use of my trying it; no use of my loyalty to the family being stronger than the absence of footprints in the snow. I was going on nineteen years old, wasn't I? Why shouldn't I be the only wise, honest one in the group? Even poor old Olympe did better than I. She tried to think of an explanation. It was no good, and she was ashamed of it. But she tried, and hoped that Lucy's clear little mind might help with it. Not smart-aleck Neal. He knew. There is no good in raving, Judy. But, gosh, I am so sick of myself that I feel exactly as I did that time when Whatof and I got in a mix-up with the skunk.

No, we haven't found the murderer. But something happened last night that proves, about as clearly as anything but finding him and hearing his confession could prove, that not one of the family was involved in the dirty business. Go on, Judy dear, crow! You can't crow any louder than I wish I had a right to.

Here is the story: Yesterday afternoon Uncle Phineas left, again, for Portland. This may seem sort of queer to you; but it isn't. I can't explain it, right now. It is a secret that Uncle Phineas and I have had together for a long time. But next week, at the latest, he hopes to be able to tell the family. As yet he hasn't told even Grandfather or Olympe.

I was sorry he couldn't see his way clear to confiding in Olympe, because his going right away again hurt her feelings like everything. He couldn't take her with him on account of our being so hard up for ready money, just now. Uncle Phineas shares Dr. Joe's room in Portland. If he had taken Olympe they would have had to go to a hotel, and we couldn't afford it. All this, then, to explain why Olympe returned to her bed, to stay, after Uncle Phineas left yesterday afternoon.

At six-thirty Aunt Gracia was going to send Olympe's supper tray up to her by Lucy, but I carried it instead. I am darn glad that I did, for now I know what I know. She seemed so forlorn that I sat down and talked to her while she ate her supper.

She was not in a sunny humour. She has been a bit miffed with me, for one thing, ever since I questioned her about the gun. Too, she was all cut up about Uncle Phineas's leaving her alone again, as she said, "at a time like this. " She has fully determined that he goes solely and wholly because he cannot bear to be on the place while "that young person," as she calls Irene, is here.

I didn't stay with her any longer than seemed necessary. When she had eaten her supper, she asked me to search her room before I left her alone in it. To humour her, I made a thorough job of it. I looked under the bed and the sofa, in the closet, behind the curtains, and I even opened her old Flemish chest and stirred through it. She asked me, next, to put her wrapper handy, so that she could slip into it when she got up to lock the door after me. I told her that someone would be coming up, directly after supper, to keep her company and then she'd have to get out of bed and unlock the door again. She said that she would not stay a moment alone in the house unless she were certain that every window and door was locked. (I grinned to myself. One of her windows was three inches down from the top, right then, as Uncle Phineas always has it when he is at home. I had left it like that because I thought the fresh air would be good for her headache. That stuffy, purple and brown, verbena and liniment atmosphere that always pervades Olympe's room would give me a headache at any time.) She said, also, that she was in no humour for company this evening. You know Olympe's "Tired, ill, and old" speech-or perhaps you don't. It seems to me that has been devised since you left. At any rate, she was unfit for companionship. She was, as soon as I left her, going to take some of the drops Dr. Joe had given her. She hoped, merely hoped, for a little sleep. So, if I would please, ask the others to walk quietly when they came through the hall on the way to bed?

I promised to deliver the message, took her tray and went into the hall. I put it on the stand, and went into the bathroom to clean up a bit. As I walked through the hall I noticed-I am certain of this-that all the doors were standing ajar except the attic door, your door, and the door to Father's room. When I came out of the bathroom, I picked up the tray and went downstairs, using the back stairway.

The folks were sitting down to supper when I went into the dining room. I apologized to Grandfather for being late. Dong Lee came in with a tray of muffins, and hung around to hear them praised. Aunt Gracia and Lucy remarked on their excellence. Chris asked how Olympe was feeling. I answered, and delivered her message about quiet in the hall. Irene produced a none too gentle remark concerning Olympe's deafness. Chris, as usual-one does sort of have to feel sorry for Chris at times-tried to cover it with an observation about the mantel clock's being slow. Aunt Gracia thought not, and asked Grandfather for the correct time. Grandfather took out his watch, opened it, said that it was two minutes after seven --

Just at that moment, with every last one of us right there around the dining table, the sound of a gunshot crashed through the house. It was precisely and exactly one too many shots for most of us.

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