Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 (19 page)

“So she was often at the school.” I should have looked Patty Kay’s daybook over more thoroughly. Yes, I’d read the notation “Class” at nine
A.M
. Friday. Read right over it, actually. Class literally had meant class. I’d assumed she was often on the campus in her capacity as a trustee. I’d better be careful about making assumptions.

“Sure. She was out there a lot.” Gina slid behind the wheel.

I walked quickly to my MG.

The silver BMW roared down the street. Gina Abbott drove the way she talked, fast and jerky.

I had to slip through on the tail end of two yellow stoplights to keep up. I had plenty to think about. Brigit had seen her mother in cheerful conversation with the headmaster late Thursday afternoon. The next morning Patty Kay was icily cold to Selwyn. According to Brigit.

Whatever had affected Patty Kay’s behavior must have occurred between late afternoon Thursday and her encounter with the headmaster Friday morning.

At the edge of town the BMW careened onto a black asphalt road. Puddles geysered beneath the sports car’s wheels.

The BMW was gaining on a black Jaguar moving at a much slower pace. The cars shot up a hill, just short of the solid stripe warning not to pass.

Gina leaned on the horn and jerked the wheel left. The BMW surged past the Jaguar. Gina lifted a hand in a choppy wave.

I waited until we crested the hill, then accelerated and passed the Jaguar too. Far ahead, almost at the top of another hill, the BMW shot right. I followed, turning in beneath the ornate iron grillwork. Walden Schools massive gates stood open wide.

A half dozen or more buildings were scattered among the oaks, magnolias, and hackberries. The buildings were Greek Revival in style.

The silver BMW swung into a parking area close to a lovely old house that served as Walden School’s administration building. I pulled in beside it.

“That was Brooke. In the Jaguar. She’s probably been at Edith’s. Brooke always does all the right things. Always. I went over last night, but I just couldn’t stand it today. Edith’s practically a zombie. She’s popping Valium like peanuts. She was loaded to the gills last night.”

“Yes.”

Gina looked toward the administration building. She didn’t have to say a word for me to understand. The snake in Eden.

She walked so fast I had trouble keeping up. And she talked fast. “Over there”—her arm swept to the right— “that’s the lower school. See, with the playground next to it. The middle school’s through those pines. The upper school buildings are closest to the lake. These buildings house mathematics, art, music, languages, and computers. And that’s the theater.”

Weeping willows rimmed the placid lake. Geese and ducks waddled near the shore and paddled in the water. And Franci died in those quiet green waters.

“The gyms and the field hockey, soccer, baseball, and football fields are on down the road, just around the bend. You can see the tennis courts from here.”

And hear the
thock
of balls. The players, in gray shorts and white shirts, looked to be middle-school age. They were quite good.

As we neared the house, bells rang and students poured from the buildings. The boys wore khaki slacks, white shirts, ties, and blue blazers. The girls wore navy uniform skirts and white blouses.

“It’s all very impressive.”

And there, running and laughing, was a group of little boys, boys about twelve …

“But not Eden,” Gina said sharply. She hurried up the shallow steps to the front porch. She grabbed the bronze doorknob and pulled the heavy door. “Or maybe it’s just like Eden. Like everything in life. Lots of beauty and underneath horror waiting to happen.”

“Horror doesn’t always happen.”

Gina didn’t answer. Young Franci’s suicide and Patty Kay’s brutal murder had made the skull beneath the skin too vivid for her.

We stepped into a cool, spacious hall. A gorgeous cream and blue Persian rug covered the pegged wooden floor. A middle-aged woman sat behind a well-ordered walnut desk. She looked up from her computer as we approached and gave a solemn nod.

“Hello, Mrs. Abbott.” She smiled at me politely.

“Hello, Alice. I need to see Mr. Selwyn.”

“Oh, Mrs. Abbott, I’m not sure. He’s having such a hard day. So many parents have called. Everyone’s so upset about Franci.” Her voice was suitably grave, but her eyes gave no hint of distress.

“That’s why I need to see him.” Gina turned to her left toward closed double doors. An eye-level nameplate proclaimed in gold letters:

CHARLES EDWARD SELWYN
Headmaster

The secretary’s eyes flashed. She started to rise, ready to do battle to protect her boss. “Mrs. Abbott, please—”

The main door opened and Brooke Forrest stepped inside. She gave us a tremulous smile.

Gina took a deep breath. She didn’t even say hello. Instead, she asked gruffly, “How’s Edith?”

Brooke’s kind of beauty is rare—classic bone structure, cameo-smooth skin, huge aquamarine eyes beneath perfect brows, sleek raven-dark hair. But today even her ageless loveliness reflected intense stress. Dark shadows curved beneath haunted eyes. Deep lines bracketed her mouth.

“Dreadful … Oh, Gina, it’s so awful, so
awful.”

The two friends came together, embraced.

Belatedly, Gina remembered me. “Brooke, I want you to meet Henrietta Collins, Craig’s aunt.”

“We met last night, Gina. At Cheryl’s.” Solemn aquamarine eyes turned toward me. “How are you, Mrs. Collins?” But she looked faintly surprised at my presence.

“She wants to talk to Chuck. Patty Kay was mad at him. Mrs. Collins is looking into everything. She and Desmond think somebody framed Craig.”

“Framed him? Why, that’s dreadful.” Brooke stared at me in horrified concern.

“Yes,” I said crisply, “it’s quite dreadful.”

“Certainly, yes, you must see about it.” Brooke nodded. “But there’s so much that needs to be done. We have to decide what kind of memorial the board will make for Patty Kay. It’s so important to do the right thing….”

“The right thing,” Gina repeated emphatically. “Yes. I want to see the right thing done.” She grabbed the handle
of one of the double doors to the headmaster’s office and yanked it open, ignoring the secretary’s startled protest.

Originally a drawing room, the headmaster’s office was remarkable for its high, coved ceiling with an elaborate cornice. The desk, an antique French dining table, faced the double doors. It sat between two ceiling-tall windows in the west wall. Equally tall windows opened onto the front porch. Elegant rose silk hangings framed all the windows. A half dozen Chippendale chairs were scattered about on the flowered Brussels tapestry carpet. On the north wall, trophy cases were mounted on either side of a black marble fireplace. Inscribed silver trophies glittered in the light from the multitiered chandelier.

Charles (Chuck) Selwyn, headmaster of Walden School, halted in mid-stride as we entered his office unannounced. He held a cordless telephone receiver in his hand. His navy blazer was beautifully tailored, his Oxford button-down blue cotton shirt crisp, his rep tie predictable, his khaki slacks perfectly creased.

I wondered for a moment if I’d wandered into a 1950s Peter Lawford movie. Selwyn had that kind of boyish good looks, complete to a lock of dark hair that fell across his manly brow. He raised a hand in greeting, and continued to talk into the phone. “… certainly understand your concern, Mrs. Wherry. We’re doing our very best to protect the younger students from this sad event. Of course, it does give all of us, parents and faculty, an opportunity to reach out to our students, a growth experience, if you will, and—” The handsome face winced. He held the receiver a little way from his ear.

We could all hear “…
don’t
send children to an
expensive
school to have them involved in this kind of
upsetting
situation. I want some
assurances
that there won’t be
any
more talk about this. Susan’s
cried
out in her sleep
every night since we heard about it. And how could a student
do
that kind of thing on school property without
anyone
seeing it? Even if it did happen on the other side of the lake. I
certainly
feel—”

Gina darted across the room.

Selwyn never had a chance.

She snatched the receiver from his hand. “Listen, lady, you get to tuck Susan in tonight, don’t you? How do you suppose Franci’s mother feels? Talk about feelings—don’t you have any, for Christ’s sake?” She jabbed the Off button.

Selwyn looked like somebody’d spit on the American flag. “Mrs. Abbott, we may lose that family. We can’t talk to people like that. They’re
upset!”

Gina’s face bunched into a furious scowl. “I’m upset too. Edith’s daughter is dead. Dead!” For a moment I feared she would lose control again. “The important thing is to find out who wrote those damn notes. We’ve got to do everything we can do to find out who’s responsible and—”

Brooke frowned. “Responsible? Responsible for what?”

“—kick whoever it is out—”

The phone buzzed.

Selwyn stepped toward Gina, trying to retrieve his phone.

She continued to grip the receiver tightly. “No. We’re going to talk. Brooke, go tell Alice to hold the calls.
All
the calls.”

Brooke, with a small shake of her head, obediently turned and opened the hall door. “Alice, no calls for the headmaster, please.”

“Mrs. Abbott.” Selwyn’s voice was sharp. It had lost some of its boy-hero quality. Maybe there was a real man hidden in those preppy clothes. “I’d like to remind you that this is
my
office. I have my responsibilities. It’s my duty to reassure parents in a time of crisis and this is—”

Brooke shut the hall door.

Gina was trembling with barely-suppressed rage. “Yes, this is a time of crisis,” she snapped. “This is going to be the event that marks whether Walden School can deal with reality, the reality of cruelty—and do something about it.”

“Of course death is cruel when it takes one so young, Mrs. Abbott, and we’re definitely dealing with all aspects of the problem. Counselors have arranged group sessions throughout today and tomorrow, and there will be an upper school assembly Thursday morning. I assure you it will be—”

“Shouldn’t school close tomorrow?” Brooke interrupted softly. “In Patty Kay’s honor? Her funeral’s at ten.”

Selwyn began to look like a man with a bad headache. Still, he managed to keep his voice pleasant. “I understand the sentiment, Mrs. Forrest, but in view of the other tragedy we’re confronting, I strongly believe it’s imperative to maintain as nearly normal a schedule as possible, all the while encouraging our students to communicate their grief and fears and to understand that a disturbed person cannot be held responsible for his or her acts.” He brushed back that lock of hair. “And we didn’t have sports yesterday. We’ve got to get back to normal.”

Gina stalked toward him, stood a few scant inches from him. “Chuck, for Christ’s sake, stop talking like a Woody Allen movie.” She confronted him, her hands balled into angry fists, her face fierce with disgust. “Let’s put it on the table, Chuck. Stop blaming the victim. Somebody—a real person—a
student
—was responsible for a little girl killing herself. Another Walden School student wrote those hideous notes to Franci. Degrading, sickening, nasty notes. That student must be held accountable. So how about letting all of our students grapple with moral responsibility? Okay?”

“Notes? What notes? Gina, what are you
talking
about?” Brooke’s soft voice was bewildered.

Gina swung toward her. “You don’t know?”

Brooke shook her head, and her silky black hair swayed.

Gina’s eyes glittered. “Someone’s been sending Franci notes full of filth, saying she was stupid, describing really sick sex, asking her how she’d like to have some, slipping porno pictures into the letters. Oh, God, Edith found a whole shoebox of this crap under Franci’s bed.”

Brooke stepped back in a vain attempt to escape the furious diatribe. Her lovely face creased in horror. “Oh, that’s dreadful,” she cried. “I can’t imagine it. Oh, we mustn’t let anyone know—”

“Not let anyone know?” Gina’s raging stare was incredulous. “Do we live on the same planet? Of course we
have
to let people know. And someone will have seen something, someone will know enough to lead us to whoever wrote them.”

Brooke’s long, graceful hands rose in dismay. Her nails were perfect, a pale pink this morning. Selected, I was certain, for Franci’s funeral. Brooke would have thought about that. Nothing too bright. She was that kind of woman. Her black silk suit, the V-necked jacket cut short and square with subdued silver buttons and a moderate straight skirt, was perfect too. The jewelry was tasteful. Small silver studs in her ears, a single-strand pearl necklace, a fine-linked silver bracelet. Only the distress in her lovely face marred her modeling-ramp appearance. “How awful for Franci, to have it all come out. All those things … Oh, no. We can’t. The scandal. It would be so awful for Franci.”

“Brooke, Franci’s dead!” Gina shouted it. “What would be awful would be to let the person who drove that child to her death get away with it. We’ve got to find out who wrote
that nasty stuff.” Her bony face scrunched into an ugly mask of revulsion.

The headmaster lifted his hands as if quieting an unruly class. “Mrs. Abbott, I must insist that I know the proper role for us to play in this tragic drama. This, after all, is my domain. I’m an expert in dealing with the emotional traumas of young people. Mounting a witchhunt among our students would surely be the most counterproductive act possible. I do fully understand your concern with responsibility, and I assure you that I will bend my efforts—
quiet
ones—to seek out the perpetrator. But”—he spoke firmly— “I must stress that the proper approach will not be vengeance or retribution but a sorrowful confrontation and appropriate counseling.” Mournfully, he shook his head. “Can you not imagine, Mrs. Abbott, the sorrow and despair in some youthful heart even as we speak? A childish prank has resulted in a terrible tragedy that is certain to scar the young person responsible. Perhaps forever …”