"No one's accusing you of stealing, Fern. All I want to know is whether you have any idea where it could be. Maybe it was put in a wrong drawer or a wrong envelope," I said.
"I never saw it," she insisted.
I stood there, staring at her. She kept her eyes fixed on the bed.
"If you didn't like helping at the front desk, why didn't you just come to tell me?" I asked.
"I was going to . . . tonight," she replied quickly.
"Well, that would be a lot better than telling lies. You don't have to do that anymore, Fern. There is no reason to lie to anyone, and if you ever need anything—"
"I didn't steal the money," she repeated, pounding her knees so hard with her fists, I had to shudder thinking of the pain.
"All right. Let's not talk about the money. Don't you have any homework to do?" I asked.
"I have time to do it," she whined.
"How long have you been reading those kinds of magazines?" I asked, gazing at the magazine on the bed. I remember she had packed them in her suitcase.
"I don't know," she said, shrugging. "They're not dirty, if that's what you mean."
"I didn't say they were dirty. I would have thought they were just too old for you," I said.
"Well, they're not. I like the stories. You're not going to take them away from me, are you? That's what Clayton used to do."
"No, I'm not taking them away, but—"
"You're being just as mean as he was," she cried, and she buried her face in her pillow. Her shoulders rose and fell with her sobs.
"Fern," I said, going to her, "I didn't say you couldn't have your magazines." I sat on the bed and put my hand on her shoulder, but she pulled away and jumped off the bed as if my touch was scalding.
"I didn't steal that money. I didn't!" she screamed, slapping her fists against the sides of her legs. "Mrs. Bradly is an old witch for telling you I did. She's an old witch, and you're terrible to believe her," she cried, running from the room.
"Fern!"
I got up and went after her, but she bounded down the stairs and out the front door. Mrs. Boston came to the foot of the stairs and looked up.
"I'm afraid I didn't handle that too well, Mrs. Boston," I said.
She shook her head.
"It's not going to be easy for anyone to handle that one," she said prophetically, and then she returned to her work. I went back to the hotel. A short while later Jimmy came into my office, his eyes full of pain and anger. He sat down quietly and stared at me.
"What happened with Fern?" he asked, his throat constricted, his voice under tight harness. I could feel the tension in the air between us.
"Jimmy," I said softly, leaning toward him, "I think Fern took money from the petty cash fund."
Before he could respond, I told him everything Mrs. Bradly had told me. He listened and then shook his head.
"Why would she steal money, Dawn, and from us? She can have anything she wants. She doesn't need money," he said.
I told him about the money I had seen in her pocketbook when we were in New York.
"So?" he said. "That proves she wouldn't need money. She has more than she needs."
"But Jimmy, people sometimes steal for other reasons," I began.
"She wouldn't steal from us," he insisted firmly. "And I'm really surprised that you went and accused her."