by Kate Flora
"Yes, but how—"
She sighed. "I know. All we can do is make them aware of the risks. Give them our best advice. After that, it's up to them."
"But Charlotte seemed—" Or didn't seem. Charlotte had been eerily silent.
"She may still do the right thing. Or there may be so much money on the table that she won't. Or she may at least have the good sense to make sure they give Johnny and Alyce the same penalties, which will get Jonetta off her back."
"But not be good for the students or the school."
"Good for the bottom line," she corrected, "bad for character building, student body morale, or, ultimately, the school's reputation. In the end, it's not our problem. As long as we've documented that we gave good advice, and made clear that they can't use our reputation to justify irresponsible actions, we just send a bill and move on."
She was so much better at this. She was tiny. Looked delicate. And was currently bed-ridden and as big around as she was high. But she was better at the business side while I was good at delivering the tough advice in person. One reason we made good partners.
"We can't win them all, Thea. Nobody can."
True, if not much comfort.
I didn't stop for a coffee, or to check my messages, or for anything else. In a remarkably short time, probably because I drove like fiends were chasing me, I was at the rest stop just before my exit. As though a heavy foot on the pedal could exorcise my demons or make my clients rational. I decided to get a coffee and give myself a biobreak. Once I got to Blackwell, there might not be time for either one.
When I grabbed my coat off the back seat, the mystery package sat there like an unspoken reproach. I might as well open it. I assumed it was the sweater from my mother, but what Randy had said last night nagged at me. What if it contained the stuff he was looking for? Things that Ginger had sent me for safekeeping? There could be something Andre needed. A confessional letter. Birth certificate. There could be stolen jewels or Randy's pet rock. If I ignored it, it would become another distraction. I didn't need more distractions. The rebellious crew at Stafford was more than enough.
Tossing down my coat and grabbing the package, I got back in the car and started working the tape loose. First carefully, then, as the tape resisted, I gave up and tore my way in. Inside was a box sealed with tape.
I hesitated. This wasn't how my mother usually wrapped things, nor like merchandise from Bean. What if it wasn't from her? What if there was something dangerous in here? A snake? A poisonous spider? What if it was a bomb, set to go off when I lifted the lid? I couldn't think of anyone who might do that, but I have tangled with some serious bad guys. What if this was an example of the saying: Revenge is a dish best served cold?
Time pressed on me like lead. I was too far away now to call Andre and tell him to come and deal with it. I didn't have time for dithering. I either had to take a chance and open it, or put it down, grab that coffee, and get myself to Blackwell.
I knew of no mechanism for making this decision. I closed my eyes, resorting to purely brilliant decision-making—childhood's eenie meenie miney moe.
I opened the box.
Chapter 22
Not a sweater. There were three zippered plastic bags inside, nestled in white tissue paper. The first held only one thing—a small gold locket that looked antique, on a delicate, intricate chain. I found the clasp and opened it. A picture of a young Ginger, about the age of the girl in the Stafford photo, and a picture of a toddler girl with her hair in pigtails with pink bows. Had Ginger had a sister? A child?
With shaky hands, I took out the second bag, heavy when I lifted it. It held jewelry. I'm no expert, I don't care much about jewelry beyond the gold band on my left hand, but it looked like expensive stuff to me. Like real gold and real stones. Some pretty big stones. Was this what Ginger had over her ex that he'd been looking for last night? Randy had been a thief in Florida, though I doubted Ginger had known that then. Was it possible he'd continued doing that here, possibly even been a thief who had used her realtor's card, opened lockboxes, and stolen from her real estate clients? That would certainly explain her sadness and sense of betrayal.
I fished around in the tissue and brought out the third bag. Photographs. Hoping this might be the clue Andre and Roland needed to finally track down Ginger's identity, I pulled them out, holding them carefully by the edges. There were five of them. Three were blurred pictures of a man. Dark haired, tall and thin, looking about Ginger's age. Hard to make out anything distinctive. He was standing beside a vehicle and staring fixedly at something. I couldn't tell anything about the color or make of the vehicle. Maybe the police had some experts who could. He didn't appear aware that his picture was being taken.
The fourth was a woman, again too blurred to tell much about her. Longish dark hair, jeans and a turtleneck and a winter coat. She looked a little like the man in the way that thin, dark, sharp-featured people might look alike from a distance. The fifth was so blurry I couldn't make anything out at first. Gradually, as I stared at it, I realized it was a license plate. Maine. Only the first three numbers and letters visible. 4X7. I checked the backs. Nothing on the plate or the woman's picture. On one of the ones of the man, a name. Very faint and in pencil. I thought it was Jordie. Finally, something useful for Andre. With a name and license plate, he might locate this man and find out who Ginger was, why she had taken these pictures, and why she had sent them to me.
It was something Andre needed to see. He'd want this stuff right away and I'd foolishly brought it with me. Carefully, I slid them back into the box, then the envelope. When had she mailed this? I checked the postmark. It had been mailed the day she died. Maybe it had been in her office and someone had mailed it for her. Or she'd stopped at the post office on her way to our showing. Randy had called me a detective, but that hadn't made any sense. Maybe I was supposed to give these to Andre? She had known he was a detective. Why wasn't there a note? Maybe she'd just sent the stuff to keep it safe, intending to tell me about it when we met. But then, why not just give it to me? Had she had some premonition?
Too damned many whys and the only person who had the answers was dead. So much better if I'd just left the package on my desk and called Andre to come and pick it up. If I hadn't been expecting a sweater. Didn't there have to be a note? I pulled out the white tissue wrappings and shook them. Nothing on the envelope. Then I inspected the box. Scrawled on it, in pencil so faint I'd missed it before: Here are the things I told you about.
She must have planned to tell me at the showing and never got the chance.
I needed to call Andre now and tell him what I had. He'd be furious that I'd brought this package with me. When he's nose-down and following a scent, he isn't easily distracted by reasoning. My reasoning. He'd think I somehow should have known. Or that I should have opened the damned package before I left.
The clock was running. Trish was waiting. I put everything back in the envelope and put it on the floor in the backseat, covering it with an umbrella and an old raincoat. I'd decided that my next car would have a trunk, which this Jeep did not. Then I ran inside, used the restroom, skipped the coffee because the line was too long, and hit the road, dialing Andre as soon as I hit the highway.
I got voicemail, as usual, and left a brief message about the package and asked him to call. Five minutes later, he called me back, far from being all sweetness and light. His opening words set the tone. "You did what? You took the package with you? Have you lost your mind?"
The rest of the conversation consisted of a few stammering responses from me, beginning with "I thought it was from my mother," and a shower of abuse and fury from him.
"I've been busy. I wasn't thinking about..." was met with "This is a goddamned murder investigation, Thea. Why weren't you thinking?"
"But there was no return address," met with cold silence.
It was the worst fight we'd ever had. Except it could hardly be called a fight when I never had a chance to share my side. We'd arg
ued before, but it had been face-to-face. He'd walked out. Left me. We'd broken up because he thought I was too pigheaded and he couldn't stand that he couldn't protect me from danger. This was different. I got accused of "interfering with a critical police investigation" and being "too stupid to be allowed out."
Only years of dealing with abusive clients kept me able to drive under such a barrage. In the end, it was so painful I hung up on him. Hanging up was fast becoming my new MO for everything. I ignored the tears streaming down my face—just another thing I'd deal with when I reached my destination.
Eight minutes later, still stinging from Andre's angry words, I was turning into the school gates and contemplating divorce for the second time in twenty-four hours. If I was husbandless as well as childless, I could get so much more done.
I wanted to confront my husband and remind him of our different realities. Instead, I shoved Ginger and my marital dilemma into one of those lockboxes Andre had taught me about and slammed it shut. Even though I wanted to brood and sulk and beat on things with my fists, I needed to be present and effective for my client. I blotted my tears with a tissue, took a few deep breaths, and went to deal with someone else's problems.
* * *
There are ways in which all New England boarding schools are alike—there will be the clusters of bikes and sporting gear, a lot of Abercrombie and J. Crew, and this year, when we had endured the winter from hell, along with the shuffling awkwardness of Uggs and a thicket of plaid shirts, there was a renaissance of Bean boots. There will be noisy knots of students and then the outliers and the plugged-in walking alone. And all are distinctly different. Some have a red-brick solidity, like Stafford Academy. Some campuses are more modern, with architectural touches and more stone and wood. Some are a mix. Blackwell leaned heavily toward the Victorian.
I knew that the original buildings had been a private mental facility, a cluster of eight massive white buildings that looked more like overblown houses for enormous Victorian families than institutional structures. They had been built by a successful businessman with a mentally ill son who had believed that people with mental illnesses—the insane, back in his day—might recover their faculties more readily if they were housed somewhere that looked like home. When the experiment had failed to produce the hoped-for results, and the fashion in mental health treatment had moved on to big state institutions, one of Mr. Blackwell's enterprising and educationally progressive heirs had had the idea of a boarding school, and the buildings had been the beginning of The Blackwell School.
The campus center looked like a small New England town, with houses set in broad lawns and a circular drive that ran around a common. The common had a gazebo at one end, and a walking path dotted with benches than ran around a small lake. In better weather, the lake was blue and hosted ducks and students playing around in tubby wooden rowboats. When winter weather permitted, it was a skating pond. Now, in the shoulder season of March, it was a bowl of unfriendly gray mush.
At the far end of the common, a house that had sprouted two immense wings served as the administration offices and a few larger classrooms. The more modern classroom buildings housing the science labs, the infirmary, the music studios, and a wonderful gym facility were tucked away in the woods behind it. In the parking lot on the building's right, faculty and staff cars shared the space with a handful of police cars.
I wished I'd had some time on the drive to get my thoughts in order, just like I wished Ginger would stay out of my mind so I could forget Andre's anger and my wonderings about what the things in that package meant. She lingered there, though, like that wisp of hair you brush away that creeps back toward the corner of your eye.
I stuffed my phone in my purse—seeing that there were several new messages I didn't have time for—grabbed my briefcase, and hurried inside to find Trish. I'd been stuffing so many things into the briefcase it felt like it was full of lead. It was only when I grabbed my coat off the backseat that I realized I'd come here to help a client deal with a public relations nightmare wearing tight black jeans. Probably there was still something in my suitcase or in the bag I'd brought along to replenish it, though the clothes in the case, like everything else, were getting a little threadbare. I try to have clothes for any eventuality. I didn't have time to change now.
Trish's office had the same serene elegance I'd remembered—a subtle combination of feminine yet academic—but Trish, while outwardly calm, was looking frayed around the edges. She was impeccable in timeless gray Eileen Fisher, with a hand-dyed pleated silk scarf in a glorious muddle of purples and magentas that I would have mugged her for if she weren't a client. Her normally orderly desk was the only outward sign of the chaos she was feeling. Instead of a few isolated items awaiting her serial attention, it was heaped with folders and pink message slips and two half-finished cups of coffee.
We sat on comfortable mossy green loveseats flanking a gas fireplace while she filled me in in more detail. The fire was on, for which I was very grateful. The thermometer said it wasn't that cold for March, but the day had damp undertones.
"The boy who found the pictures..." I began. The flames flickered in my peripheral vision. I fought off the pictures of other flames that crowded my mind and pulled myself firmly into this room.
"Sophomore," she said. "A sweet, geeky boy. Quiet. Funny. Super responsible. Even an adult might have had trouble getting out of there with the computer without spilling the beans, but this boy—Thomas Hoover—carried it off without a hitch. I've already spoken with his parents. Tom doesn't seem the least bit upset, but his mother insists on flying in to make sure. I think he's more upset about that than about the pictures, to tell you the truth."
She ducked her head, a little embarrassed, as she said, "One of our unfortunately too typical families. Nasty divorce, both parents have new families, no real place for Tom. Up to now, my impression is that between second husband and new family, his mother's barely given her boy the time of day. Now she's becoming Momzilla."
Another duck, an acknowledgment she was being particularly frank. "Don't get me wrong. I have no problem with caring parents. Until they become overbearing—and goodness knows we're seeing plenty of that—they make our lives easier. Maybe I'm being paranoid, but I'm getting the feeling that this is more in the way of someone contemplating a lawsuit. The damage we've done to her poor Tommy, exposing him to that horrible smut. Never mind that we've got him working when he's here to study. I doubt that she'll be interested in hearing that being a tech is considered cool. That they're highly valued by the student body and students covet the job."
She smiled. "Another reason we need you."
Another parent contemplating legal action because of the risks to their poor darling, never mind that the poor darlings had affirmatively sought to put themselves in the situations that upset their mothers. I thought we ought to introduce Nina's mother to Tom's. Let them conspire together while we did what was really necessary to make their children's schools safe. What ever happened to talking about things, anyway? These days, everything seemed to go immediately to anger and blame and litigation.
I did not want to think about anger and people who had trouble talking. Instead, I was running scenarios in my mind. Making a list of questions I'd need to ask about their procedures. Wondering if there were problems with using students as computer techs or if her positive spin would be enough. Thinking about other parents at other schools and how difficult it could be to get them to listen.
"You want me to beat her up?"
Trish smiled. "In a genteel way. Beat her to the punch, at least. Help us be sure we've dotted our i's and crossed our t's."
"Well, you absolutely did the right thing in getting Dr. Harrington off campus immediately."
"I'm glad you agree."
There were flowers on the coffee table between us. Lilies. Normally, I love the scent of lilies. Right now, I still smelled the residual stench of burning flesh that had permeated my sinuses. Fainter now, but not gone. I
'd have to ask Andre how long I'd carry Ginger's last moments with me. If we were ever speaking again. It was also on my coat—another reason I wanted to throw it on the equinoxial pyre.
I dragged my attention back to what Trish was saying.
"I'm sure his lawyer doesn't think so. But it's in the contract that we reserve the right to remove someone from campus housing without notice if there is a violation of our rules." Her eyes went to a portrait on the wall, a Blackwell alum who'd become Chief Justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court. "Due process be damned."
"I wouldn't say that in public."
She smiled again, a little wearily this time. "I don't think you have to worry about that."
I'd had headmasters who couldn't keep their mouths shut. Others with a poor sense of self-protection. Never mind the one I dealt with yesterday whose judgment seemed to have departed entirely. I didn't think I'd have worry about that with Trish.
Belatedly, and with an embarrassed shrug of her shoulders, she asked if I'd like some coffee or tea. What I wanted was food, despite having had breakfast and a muffin. Although I miss as many meals as I eat, I am something of a stress eater. Meanwhile, I could put milk and sugar in my coffee. That would have to do.
"Thanks," I said. "I'd love some coffee."
I had had to pass a security guard to get through the gate, which meant Trish had taken my advice, and the students were being protected from having their campus swarming with reporters and news vans. We couldn't block out cell phones or social media, but she affirmed that they had sent a message to all of their students, asking them to voluntarily refrain from comments until the community could come together and be given the details of the situation. That meeting was scheduled for four p.m., when classes would be over.