Read Gilda Joyce: The Ladies of the Lake Online
Authors: Jennifer Allison
Gilda Joyce: The Ladies of the Lake (30 page)
Nikki Grimaldi confessed, but only after learning that Mrs. McCracken had written evidence in hand, and that Danielle had already admitted her own involvement.
“Danielle was supposed to get rid of those notes a long time ago,” Nikki blurted without thinking.
“Are you saying she
shouldn’t
have told me the truth?”
Nikki quickly switched tactics. “You have to keep in mind how really young we were back then, Mrs. McCracken!” she protested. “We’ve obviously changed. Look how much community service we do!”
“The problem, darlin’,” Mrs. McCracken drawled, “is that what you did to Dolores is called hazing, and it’s against school policy. It’s also illegal in this state. What you did could actually be considered a criminal offense.”
Ironically, Nikki’s tears stopped flowing at the impact of this hard fact. She regarded Mrs. McCracken with disappointed, bloodshot eyes.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Technically, I’m supposed to notify the authorities.”
“The
police
?”
“I understand the serious repercussions this could have for you girls and our school, so I need to think this over very carefully and do what’s fair. I’ll have to talk to your parents, of course.”
“Will we get expelled?”
“I don’t know, Nikki. I’ll need to think about this.” Mrs. McCracken could practically see Nikki’s mind at work, searching for loopholes and escape clauses—hidden trapdoors in the cage in which she suddenly found herself locked.
“I don’t remember anything in the school handbook about hazing,” Nikki said, narrowing her eyes.
“It’s there.”
“Was it there when we
were freshmen
?”
Mrs. McCracken hesitated. The hazing rule had been added more recently, to reflect state law. “What you did was wrong, Nikki.”
Mrs. McCracken knew that it was likely that Nikki’s parents would do everything possible to make the incident the fault of the school rather than the fault of the girls.
And what about Dolores’s parents? She had heard they had moved to Hawaii, but once they got wind of the truth, the long-avoided lawsuit would surely materialize.
Wearing a bright fuchsia bathrobe and matching lipstick, Mrs. McCracken sat at her bedroom dressing table and peered into an ornate mirror. The high backrest of her chair was carved in the shape of a cross that hovered just above her colorful reflection. An enormous Gothic bed loomed behind her, its headboard designed to resemble a church pulpit.
Normally, Shirley McCracken felt at peace with herself and the world as she methodically plucked a small army of bobby pins from her hair and unwound her long, yellow ponytail from its perch upon a heavily teased blond hairpiece (the secret foundation of her beehive hairdo). But tonight she felt apprehensive because she had a terrible decision to make. She looked in the mirror, and her eyes met the gaze of twenty pairs of glass eyes sitting behind her—the collection of antique dolls
that sat at the foot of her bed, observing her like a silent porcelain jury of little girls.
The sorrow of losing Dolores is a sorrow we all share
—
the loss of a member of our community and family
, Mrs. McCracken had once written in a note to Mrs. Lambert.
With the help of God, we will get through this
.
After Dolores Lambert’s death, Mrs. McCracken had made sure that the Lamberts remained in the bosom of the Our Lady of Sorrows community: she organized a special mass for Dolores, she sent roses to the bereaved couple’s home every year, she invited the Lamberts to the school for all special events just as if their daughter were still alive.
While treating the Lamberts like cherished family members, the headmistress simultaneously braced herself for the onslaught of their lawsuit. “In these situations, the parents usually sue anybody they can,” her lawyer had warned. “They’ll argue that you were negligent of your duties in loco parentis. The best we can do is show that you did warn the girls to keep off the ice and that you’re now making efforts to make the school safer.”
But the dreaded lawsuit never materialized, and Mrs. McCracken had given thanks. And up until this horrible day, the senior class had been the symbol of her success as a headmistress: polite, high academic achievers, model citizens to the other girls.
How ungrateful of this new girl, Gilda Joyce! How dare she come in from the outside and tarnish the school’s reputation!
Although, deep down, Mrs. McCracken knew that it wasn’t fair to blame Gilda, she resented the truth and wished she
could somehow turn back time to the day before, when she had been happy and confident in her ignorance. Now she had to face the horrifying revelation that Dolores’s death was connected to mean-spirited behavior on the part of three of her favorite girls.
Mrs. McCracken wedged herself between sheets that were starched and folded beneath the mattress so tightly, her bed resembled a large envelope. She clicked off her bedside lamp and folded her hands peacefully, as if she were lying in a casket.
In the dark, she was disturbed by another disconcerting thought:
Priscilla refused to confess
.
“I’ve never seen these notes before in my life,” Priscilla had protested, staring directly into Mrs. McCracken’s eyes with a wide, unblinking gaze. “I don’t know where you found this or who gave this to you, Mrs. McCracken, but it’s obviously someone who’s very jealous, or who’s demented in some way.”
“Danielle and Nikki have already told me what happened, Priscilla.”
“Maybe the two of them were involved in this, but I don’t know anything about it.”
Priscilla was a good liar. She refrained from twitching, fidgeting, overacting, excessive talking, nose rubbing, and broken eye contact—the telltale signs Mrs. McCracken had learned to recognize in her years as a school administrator.
Priscilla clasped her hands neatly on her lap. “Why would I do something that horrible, Mrs. McCracken?”
She’s lying
, Mrs. McCracken thought. “You tell me, sweet cakes. Your name is all over this document.”
“Mrs. McCracken, I don’t know why my name is on it, but my feelings are really hurt right now.” Priscilla gazed at Mrs. McCracken with beseeching eyes. “First I find out that two of my best friends have decided to
frame
me for some reason, then I find out that you don’t trust me either. I think I’ve been a pretty good student, and you would think I’d get some benefit of the doubt.”
“That’s why this is so hard, darlin’. Because I am so very, very disappointed to have to have this conversation with you.”
Priscilla’s eyes flashed. “Then stop having it.”
Mrs. McCracken was stunned. Priscilla was sometimes overconfident, but she had never been disrespectful in the past. “Watch your mouth, Miss Firecracker.”
“But I’m being falsely accused!”
“You have one more chance to tell the truth.”
“I’m not going to confess, because I didn’t do anything.”
Mrs. McCracken extracted herself from her covers and knelt at her bedside. She rested her forehead on her folded hands—the prayer position she assumed when something particularly urgent was at stake.
But instead of praying, she found herself thinking of her two grown daughters, Cheryl and Beth, who lived far away in Nashville. How would she feel if she were in Mrs. Lambert’s position and discovered that one of her own children had been blindfolded before falling through a sheet of ice to her death? How would she feel if she learned that her child had been a pawn in a mean, pointless game? Poor Dolores! Poor, poor Mrs. Lambert!
This could become public, with sensational stories in the paper and on television
, Mrs. McCracken thought. Long-suffering Mrs. Lambert would have to suffer all over again.
I don’t think I could bear it if I were in her position
, she thought.
I have to protect her. I have to protect everyone. That’s my job
.
Dear Dad,
Brad has been getting up early in the morning to put on a business suit and aftershave that smells of gasoline and burnt sausages. He doesn’t have a job, so I don’t know what he’s trying to prove. He keeps saying he has “breakfast meetings” about some “big opportunities.”
Why am I so skeptical? For one thing, when I come home from school, Brad is usually lurking about wearing jeans and an old sweatshirt, just sitting there playing video games by himself. I think he’s hooked on “Grand Theft Auto” because he plays it even when nobody else is home, and as you can imagine, this drives Mom crazy. Anyway, whenever I ask Brad how his “big breakfast opportunity meeting” was, he always looks confused for a second, as if he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
To be fair, he’s tried to make himself useful by fixing a bunch of things in the house in his spare time. For example, there has been a hole in the shower curtain for about two years, and Brad covered it with duct tape. He also fixed the toaster by emptying a decade’s worth of dried crumbs, and then he organized the entire garage and untangled fifty feet of garden hose. You would think Mom would be in heaven about that stuff, but instead, she’s been really grumpy. Maybe he’s starting to get on her nerves. To be honest, I feel kind of sorry for Brad right now.
Still, something’s fishy about his “big opportunity” meetings.
NOTE
TO
SELF:
TRAIL BRAD AND FIND OUT WHAT HE’S REALLY UP TO.
To: Gilda Joyce
From: Gilda Joyce
RE: SURVEILLANCE REPORT
SUBJECT: Bradley (“Brad”) Squib
Acting on a strong hunch, the investigator (Me) convinces her gawky, adolescent colleague-for-the-day (Mr. Stephen Joyce) to “play hooky” from morning classes and
accompany her on a surveillance mission. The bribe: I’m doing my colleague’s chores for a week. The suspect: Mr. Brad Squib.
8:40
a.m.
The lead investigator and her pubescent driver follow Mr. Squib’s SUV at a reasonable distance.
8:41
Stephen worries that Brad will spot us in his rearview mirror. He weaves around the road prissily.
“Step on it, Grandma!” I tell him.
8:51
Brad pulls into Dunkin’ Donuts. Stephen and I argue about whether we can also stop for doughnuts without being spotted. We stay in the car.
9:00
Brad emerges carrying a large cup of coffee and a chocolate doughnut with colorful sprinkles. It looks like the kind of doughnut you’d buy a four-year-old. I guess Brad is trying to cheer himself up.
9:10
Object resembling a large wad of chewing gum flies from window of Brad’s car. Who chews gum while also eating a doughnut?
9:15
I attempt to change the radio station and am told, “Don’t touch anything in the car.”
9:16
Bad smell in the car momentarily distracts investigator. Odiferous boy denies responsibility.
9:30
Brad parks and walks into a bookstore. I follow him, wearing my sunglasses and trench coat. I carry a newspaper that I can also use as a disguise by opening it up and pretending to read the business section.
9:40
I spot Brad heading toward the “self-help” section.
9:50
Titles I catch Brad skimming:
What
to
Do
When
the
Train
of
Life
Heads
Off
the
Tracks
and
Act
Happy;
Feel
Better!
10:13
Brad buys a newspaper and leaves the store. He climbs back into his car and drives away.
10:30
Stephen and I watch as Brad heads toward a park bench and pulls open the classified section of the newspaper. He reads for a minute, then takes out his cell phone.
10:35
I cautiously creep up behind the bench to eavesdrop on Brad:
BRAD: “Hey, Chuck–Squib here! BRAD Squib. Not ‘Squid’–Squib! S-Q-U-I-B! Don’t you remember? I sold you a car a couple years
ago? Great deal. Oh. Well, sorry to hear that. If I were still at the dealership, I would get that fixed for you, but … Oh, sure, sure. I understand; you’re busy. I’m on the run myself. Say, Chuck, if you ever hear of any hiring over there at your office … Oh, I know how it is. Tough everywhere, right? Oh, I’ve got lots of opportunities, Chuck. NO worries on my end. Take care, buddy.”
(Brad dials another number)
“Hey, Larry–Squib here! Brad Squib. That’s right, the car guy! Oh, sure–sure I can hold….
11:00
Brad falls silent after making seven phone calls. I’m concealed by a tree just behind his bench, so I can’t see his face, but I sense that he’s glum. Nobody he called wanted to talk to him about a job.
11:10
I realize something: Brad isn’t the person I thought he was. I assumed he was simply arrogant and dumb, and that he was hiding something shady, like cheating on Mom with his ex-wife or compulsive gambling. But now I understand why he wanted to come over to our house and act like a big hero who was helping us out and solving
all our problems. Sure, he wants to help, but deep down, he’s sad. In fact, I get the sense he doesn’t know who he is without his job. Suddenly this surveillance activity isn’t as much fun anymore.