Confessions: The Private School Murders (31 page)

“Oh my God! C.P.! Are you okay?” I demanded, scrambling to the edge of my bed.

“Damn, girl. You should go out for Team USA soccer. What the hell was that?” she asked, rubbing her head.

“Sorry. Today is not the day to wake me up by tickling,” I told her, shivering. “I saw a lot of spiders last night. A
lot
a lot.”

C.P. winced and sat up. She was wearing a green jacket over a white T-shirt and rolled-up jeans with flats. “Yeah, Harry told me. I guess I should’ve thought of that.”

I yawned and looked around at my bright, sunlit bedroom. “What time is it?”

“Twelve thirty,” she replied, standing up and dusting off the back of her jeans. “Harry and I have been up for hours.”

“You’re kidding! I slept all morning?” I asked, shoving myself out of bed. “Why didn’t anyone get me up?”

She shrugged. “It’s Saturday. They figured you had a long night.”

I glanced at my computer screen, remembering the evil e-mail from Royal Rampling. They had no idea.

“Anyway, the men have gone downtown to see Matthew, and we have work to do.” She picked up a sweater from my window seat and tossed it at me. “So get dressed. I’ll meet you in the kitchen. We got bagels.”

I groaned but pulled on the long striped sweater and dug some leggings out of a drawer. As I shoved my feet into my favorite suede booties, I twisted my hair into a low ponytail. Satisfied that I didn’t look like I’d been up half the night crying—not to mention battling poisonous creatures—I joined C.P. in the kitchen.

“Here. Cinnamon raisin,” she said, handing me a plate with a bagel slathered in butter.

As I munched on my food, I wanted to tell her about the late-night bombshell courtesy of Gmail, but it meant I’d
have to catch her up on the entire story of James, which I’d actually never told her. How could I? Until very recently my memory bank of him had been shot full of holes.

“Coffee to go?” C.P. asked, handing me a full paper cup as I got up from the kitchen island.

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,” I said, taking a sip.

C.P. grinned. “That seems to be the consensus around here lately.”

It took a few seconds for her words to sink in. We were already in the elevator when it hit me. I narrowed my eyes and looked at C.P. as she rocked back and forth from her toes to her heels, watching the lights flash as we headed toward the lobby.

“What did you mean before when you said, ‘
Harry
and I have been up for hours’?” I asked.

“Did I say that?” she asked, blushing.

She was saved from further interrogation when the elevator came to a stop on the main floor and the doors clanked open. Standing there, waiting for the elevator, were a half dozen tenants, all of whom thanked me for putting a stop to the Attack of the Exotic Creatures.

“No problem,” I said with a modest laugh. “Apparently, whenever anything weird happens, you should just call me.”

C.P. darted through the lobby and out the door. I excused myself from my new fan club and chased after her.

“You didn’t say ‘Everyone has been up.’ You said ‘Harry and I,’ ” I reminded her when we reached the sidewalk. “Start talking, Claudia Portman.”

“Okay, okay!” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “I like Harry. A lot. And oddly enough, he likes me back.”

“Are you kidding me?” I brought my free hand to my forehead. “Oh my God. Were you here last night? When the… with the…”

Her face said it all.

“I hid in Harry’s bedroom. He was afraid Jacob might kill us both if he found me,” she said. “This morning I snuck out and then rang the doorbell like I was just showing up.”

“Oh, God! Have you two…?” I closed my eyes and shook my head. “I can’t even think about saying it.”

C.P. nodded, then covered her face with both hands.

“I’m seriously going to be sick, C.P.,” I said, and turned away. “Hey, serial killer dude!” I called toward the street. “You can come get me now! I can’t live with the image that is now burned on my brain.”

“Tandy! Take that back!” C.P. said.

“Okay, fine. I take back the part about wanting the serial killer to come get me,” I told her. “But the rest?
This is insane. I can’t believe it. You and my
twin brother
. Freaksome.”

C.P. rolled her eyes and hooked her arm through mine. “Come on, Tandy Angel, PI. We have an appointment to get to.”

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” I asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

On our way down the avenue, C.P. told me all about how she and Harry had started out—taking the odd lunch together, him teaching her piano basics, her “updating his look,” as she put it.

“Just swear you will never, ever share with me any intimate details of your sex life,” I said as we crossed Sixty-Second Street. “I think my brain would completely implode.”

C.P. laughed. “I solemnly swear.”

She stopped in front of an upscale Art Deco apartment building called the Century, four times larger than the Dakota. It was also less fancy, less spooky, and somewhat less stuck-up, but still on prime Central Park West real estate facing the park.

In fact, the building had a view of the Bow Bridge, where Marla Henderson had been shot to death.

“This is it!” C.P. announced.

“This is what?” I asked, looking up toward the tip-top of the building.

“Our appointment.”

C.P. led me inside and over to the doorman behind the desk.

“We’re here to see Mrs. Henderson,” C.P. said with authority. “She’s expecting us.”

68

“Mrs. Henderson?”
I hissed as we stepped into the elevator. “Are you serious?”

“Why not go straight to the source?” C.P. replied.

As we crawled skyward, my stomach lurched and clenched. I wasn’t sure if this was a fantastic idea or a terrible one. Mrs. Henderson had endured the death of her husband and the murder of her daughter and had probably been grilled by the police several times over. And now she was about to get a visit from Tandoori Angel, girl detective, and her trusty sidekick, C.P., brother dater? I’d be surprised if she didn’t toss us out of her apartment in less than two and a half seconds.

The apartment door opened, and a red-haired woman
of about forty smiled weakly at us. She wore a black dress and a silver cross on a long velvet cord.

“Tandy? C.P.? Come in. I’m Marla’s mom. Please call me Valerie.”

We stepped over the threshold, and Valerie clasped my hands and gave C.P. an impulsive hug.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to have visitors who want to talk about Marla,” she said, leading us into the airy cream-colored living room. “Most people are afraid they’ll make me cry. It doesn’t take much to make me cry these days.”

C.P. said, “We’re so sorry about what happened to Marla.”

“Thank you.”

Valerie sat on a sofa in front of a marble fireplace and nodded at us to sit. C.P. and I chose a pair of soft love seats across from her.

“We’re here because we want to do something to help find whoever did this to Marla,” I began, speaking quietly. “We’ve been interviewing people she knew—kids from her class, really—but we were wondering if you could answer a few questions, too.”

Marla’s mother shrugged. “If you think it might help.”

As C.P. asked Valerie some preliminary questions, my eyes naturally traveled the room. There were dozens of
family photos grouped on the table behind the couch. I saw family snapshots taken in the Caribbean, as well as more recent pictures of Marla playing soccer, accepting an award at Brilling Day, and sitting atop a horse in full riding gear.

But the picture that kept pulling me in was an oil painting over the mantel. It depicted a young Marla blowing out seven birthday candles. Her parents were behind her, bent close as if they could help make Marla’s wish come true, their faces lit with candlelight.

The painting was draped with swags of black crepe.

Valerie saw me staring. “Larry and Marla were so close. My daughter was absolutely devastated when he died. He had a heart attack, completely unexpected.”

I cleared my throat. I knew something about unexpected deaths. I decided it was time to focus before my head and heart went off the rails.

“Mrs. Henderson, C.P. and I go to All Saints,” I told her. “A friend of ours was recently murdered.”

“Adele Church?” Mrs. Henderson said. “I read about her.”

“Yes. Adele. She was shot just two days before Marla died, and we think there may be a connection,” I said. “When we started looking into Adele’s case, we found out two other girls who went to private schools on the Upper
West Side had died recently as well, also by gunshot. Lena Watkins and Stacey Blackburn. Did Marla know any of them?”

“Not that I know of,” Mrs. Henderson said. “Most of her friends were from Brilling, and she would have told me if she’d met anyone new.”

“Did Marla have any enemies? A stalker, maybe? Or a jealous friend?” I asked.

“I really don’t think so,” Valerie said, sounding tired. “If you check out her Facebook page, you’ll see. She had so many friends.”

“Valerie, if it’s okay, may we see Marla’s room?” I asked.

She nodded. “Sure. It’s just the way she left it.”

Then she put her face in her hands and started to cry.

69

Marla’s room was painted
in tangy tangerine, with smart white molding and white furniture. I saw a pair of short brown leather boots, similar to the ones I was wearing, lying by the side of the bed as though Marla had just tugged them off and dropped them there. The bed was unmade.

C.P. went to the closet and, after riffling through Marla’s wardrobe, pronounced, “You know what? Marla had style.”

Photos were stuck in the frame of Marla’s vanity mirror: snapshots of sports events, a class play, and three separate pictures of Marla with boys our age, their arms around her shoulders.

There were also pictures of Marla and her father at a varsity basketball game, and one of Larry Henderson dancing with Marla at someone’s wedding.

My thoughts veered to my own family, and I know this is awful, but I felt a twinge of jealousy. I didn’t have family photos like these. Marla’s parents loved her and participated in the things she liked. My parents demanded excellence and forced us to do what they wanted us to do. What I wouldn’t give for just
one photo
of me and my now-dead dad looking casual, happy, and unstressed. Really
alive
.