by Ada Madison
“I’m sorry—” Elysse said at the same time, and broke into tears. “Never mind the grade, Dr. Knowles. Really, all this over a stupid grade? I can’t believe I was so…so…”
Young, I wanted to say, but decided to keep things going in the direction of progress.
Elysse had a lot more to say about Facebook and how she hated flame wars and couldn’t believe she’d started one. While she talked on and on, because she had to, I had the strangest flashback to the watercolor print in my den. One of the images was of a circle of cobblestones in front of the Old State House in Boston. The tiny monument commemorated the Boston Massacre of 1770, in which a minor dispute between a young American man and a British sentry turned into a riot. The crowd, some of whom had no idea what started the fray, grew angry. British soldiers fired into the crowd, killing five colonists. At least, that’s the way our American history teachers told the story.
Historical accuracy aside, I thought there was a lesson in the narrative. If not settled early, a small dispute grows bigger and hurts a lot of people.
I took Elysse’s hand and held it a moment. “I was thinking we’d meet each other halfway. What if I give you half the points for that problem? I believe you honestly misunderstood the instructions and had no intention of getting away with anything by using the calculator. Giving you half credit makes sense, and I can live with that in terms of fairness to the other students who worked the problem as I intended. This way, you’ll still have your A for the class.”
At which point, Elysse’s sobs became loud enough to attract the attention of some, but not all, of the people around us, clicking away on their computers, notebooks, pads, touches, and phones.
As for the Friends, whoever they were, who had planted the note under Elysse’s door and thrown a brick at mine, I knew if I found them, I’d show no mercy.
I had some time before meeting Kira at the Mortarboard, the campus’s poor cousin to the Coffee Filter. I wished I’d thought to change my meeting with Kira also, if only for the sake of good coffee, but it was probably too late. I decided to walk back to my office and spend the interim on end-of-year odds and ends. The first order of business would be to make the adjustment to Elysse’s grade.
Though I was happy to be closing that chapter of the school year, I couldn’t help wishing there was a way to address the faceless alleged friends who’d escalated things.
I called Bruce from my office, reported on my morning visit from the HPD, and gave him happy news for once.
“Elysse and I are good again,” I told him, and relayed the details of our meeting.
“Then who threw the brick and who put the note under her door?”
“I have no idea. Maybe one of my Facebook friends has a silver SUV.”
We both laughed at that idea. My presence on social networking sites was only through the Henley College page and those of various professional groups I belonged to. I kept putting off establishing my own page since I didn’t see the point. I wasn’t looking for a job; I had all the flesh-and-blood friends I needed; I had nothing to sell. For now, I was fine without pokes from capital-F friends.
“I’m going to look into it,” Bruce said, his chuckling over.
“What can you do, other than write a message to every one of Elysse’s friends individually and ask for their alibis?”
“I can start by talking to Virge.”
“Bruce, Friends are all over the world. They’re in Omaha and Singapore and Brazil. Not even the Henley PD can track them all down.”
“One of them came to Henley, Massachusetts. He didn’t toss a brick from Shanghai.”
“Good point. But I still don’t see how you can find him. Or her. My neighbors didn’t get a license plate or see who was driving the vehicle. There’s not enough to go on.”
“That’s Virge’s job. He’ll help me figure something out. Meanwhile, just be cool.”
I promised I’d try.
I was ready to drop the brick episode and let Bruce and Virgil do their thing, except that every now and then I looked out my campus office window at passing traffic, checking for a silver SUV. The Lawrences were new to my neighborhood. I wondered how they’d feel if I showed up on their doorstep and queried them further about the vehicle they’d seen speeding away from my house.
I sat at my desk, from which I sorted and tossed paper after paper—homework sets from classes gone by, articles that were years out of date, memos with college policy changes that had been superseded ten times over by now. I made a note to alert Woody to the extra poundage for the trash this week. The promised paperless office never quite made it to Henley, at least not to the first floor of Benjamin Franklin Hall.
All the while I was sorting, I’d checked each piece for one that might have been left by the deceased Mayor Graves. Nothing. How many more times was I going to try? How many more nothings would it take before I’d drop the fantasy that the mayor had left a clue to his murder in my own little office?
I thought about the undefined evidence Virgil had mentioned. Sight unseen, I tried to convince myself that the police had already found whatever important, or incriminating, communication there was between Richardson and the mayor. I would love to have concluded that whatever the mayor was trying to tell me—in person, on the phone, in my office—had now been cleared up. I figured it would be at least an hour before I questioned it again.
On the way to the Mortarboard to meet Kira, I walked past the tennis courts, where Monty Sizemore was hitting neon green balls against the backboard. Maybe it was because I was aware of his current mental state, but he seemed to be slamming the ball with more force than necessary. I felt sorry for him, knowing he was missing his partner. Then not sorry when I recalled his repeated calls and nagging.
He stopped when he saw me and indicated that I should meet him at the gate to the courts. He trotted over to the entrance to the courts, a white towel around his neck and a bottle of water in his hand.
“Hey, Sophie. I hoped you’d come by today. I figured you’d be going to the service and you’d maybe stop at your office. I was watching for you, but I didn’t see you go into the building.”
The idea of Monty’s stakeout gave me an irrational, uneasy feeling. “I went in through the side door,” I explained, curious that he didn’t simply call me back after last night’s hang-up. I looked at my watch. “I need to meet someone in about five minutes in the Mortarboard.”
“Let’s walk and talk,” he said, and put his hand under my elbow, as if I couldn’t guide myself along the path. I slipped my arm away as soon as I could without letting on that I didn’t like the feel of his hand on me. Over the years, very few people had made it to my “do not like” list. Monty and Chris were headed for it, nearly doubling its length. At some point, I’d have to stop and figure out why. I hoped I didn’t simply envy their youth and closeness.
“Sophie, I’m so sorry I was all wound up last night. I certainly didn’t mean to be so…whatever. I hope I didn’t offend you.”
What thirty-year-old these days used that term? Offend? Maybe business schools kept to old-time terminology. “No offense,” I said.
“It’s just, I’m so frustrated.”
“I’m sure you are. I take it Chris is still at the station?” In custody seemed too harsh for the guy, though I remembered how harsh he and his sister had been with me when I’d become Facebook’s witch du jour. I was bigger than that, I told myself. Especially after the amicable settlement with Elysse, I really didn’t want to spoil my day with vengeful thoughts or deeds.
“She’s still down there. My lawyer says she could be out by noon. That is, if they don’t charge her.” Monty took a long swallow of water. “I know you’re tight with that cop in the HPD. There must be something you can do?”
Monty was the ultimate broken record. I’d have to match him. “I’m really very sorry, Monty. But we keep our professional and social lives separate.”
Liar, liar. I chided myself. But in the matter of Chris
versus the city of Henley, I really didn’t have any official information. It had been Kira, not Virgil, who mentioned emails between Chris and the mayor as the reason for her current status, and even that was second-or third-hand campus gossip only.
Once he’d released my elbow, Monty had begun a strange kind of routine, which included running ahead of me a few steps, then turning around to face me. He’d walk a few steps backward, then repeat the sequence, talking all the while. I found it disconcerting, but with only a few yards and a few minutes to go, I wasn’t about to complain to him.
About ten feet from the door to the Mortarboard, Monty stopped, blocking the entrance. I let out a sigh, this time not bothering to conceal a touch of annoyance.
Monty held his hands up, as if he was surrendering. “Okay, I didn’t want to say this, because it could sound bad,” he said. “But I’m sure if I share this with you, you’ll want to think about it and find a way to help, no question.”
“Monty—”
“Just listen,” he said, clenching his water bottle until it popped. I was surprised it didn’t crack open. “I know what the police have on her. Or what they think they have on her.”
“Oh?” Now I was listening.
“Chris was in there with Ed. In the humanities office that night. The night he was killed. They were in Bev Eaton’s office. It’s where they’ve been meeting the last few weeks. Chris has a roommate, and Ed has a…well, had a wife, you know, so they’d meet there.”
An English professor’s office as a trysting place? It made for a bizarre scenario, unless, like Ed and Kira, they were just talking. I remembered tracing back the one light that was on in the Administration Building on Saturday night to Bev’s office. I had my own feelings of regret now. If I’d told Virgil about the light right away, he might have been able to rush in there and…and what?.. catch a killer who had nonchalantly waited around to be caught?
“The mayor dumped my sister for good that night,” Monty continued. “It had been coming on for weeks. He’d been hinting that he considered her just a good friend, but when he finally came out with it, how he had a wife and son he’d never leave, and all that drivel, she was devastated. Never mind that Chris had given him her heart. Plus a major chunk of money to his campaign. Our aunt Tess died and left us each”—Monty waved away the story as if it was a gnat aiming for his face—“never mind that. Chris was destroyed. But she didn’t kill him. She saw him walk away. I swear.”
If nothing else, Monty would make an excellent, persuasive character witness for his sister.
“Did Chris tell all this to the police?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Unless she told them yesterday when they picked her up. I haven’t talked to her since then. It’s driving me crazy.”
Watching Monty hop in place in front of the Mortarboard, I didn’t doubt him for a minute. “What about your lawyer? Shouldn’t she or he be able to have Chris released if she hasn’t been charged?”
Monty mopped his brow, having generated his own heat on what was a cool spring morning. He threw up his hands. “He’s supposed to be working on it. Whatever that means. I know Chris freaked out when she heard Ed had been murdered; that’s when she told me she was probably the last person to see him alive.”
I thought of the list I’d given Virgil of those who’d voted no on the mayor as speaker. Chris had been on it, though I hadn’t highlighted her, or any of the faculty, as Virgil had wanted. “Did the police interview her?”
“Yes, and I advised her not to tell them about that night. Even though she had nothing to hide. You know how cops can be.” I nodded as if one were not a close friend. “Now I’m kicking myself. I feel like I’m to blame for this mess she’s in. Maybe if she’d come right out and admitted she was with him just before he was killed, they’d have believed her and it would be all over and she’d be here now.”
“Chris made her own choice, Monty. You just have to let her work it out.”
Monty gave me an angry, questioning stare, as if to ask if I’d been listening at all. “Are you saying you won’t help? You won’t at least make sure the police know that she withheld information only on my advice, that she did nothing wrong? Maybe I could just take an obstruction of justice charge myself and that would be it.”
I was spared from having to decline once again to intercede on Chris’s behalf by the presence of a figure in black who came up to us on the pathway. Twenty-one-year-old Kira Gilmore had outfitted herself head to toe with the color of mourning, looking like the old Italian woman who lived on my street when I was a kid. With the specks of beige and gold in my paisley top, my outfit seemed gaudy in comparison.
“Hi, Mr. Sizemore and Dr. Knowles,” she said, then, “Are you coming with us, Mr. Sizemore?”
Though I hadn’t verbalized it, Monty realized I still hadn’t made a commitment to help him out. I wasn’t sure why not myself, except that I had no reason to believe in Chris’s innocence, but every confidence in Virgil and the HPD’s ability to figure it all out.
Monty barely acknowledged Kira. He glared at me again. “I hope you’re not sorry about this, Sophie,” he said.
It sounded too much like a threat this time. Was he going to start another Facebook attack? I was beyond being intimidated, no matter how great the difference in our heights and weights.
“Have a nice day,” I said.
“You never say that,” Kira said, once Monty had taken off. She was clearly confused by what she’d happened upon. “I thought you hated that expression.”
“Extraordinary times,” I told her, and we headed toward city hall.
I couldn’t remember the last time I was in Henley City Hall. Possibly three years ago when I was maid of honor, complete with a tacky fuchsia dress and matching heels and bouquet, for a friend who wanted a civil ceremony. The inside of the building was no match for the impressive exterior. It was as if the city had run out of money after applying the expensive coat of gold leaf to the magnificent dome, in imitation of the lavish golden dome of the State House that was one of Boston’s great attractions.
Inside, the city hall was like any other government building, with modest wooden floors and moldings and a collection of statues in the great entryway. Paul Revere, John Quincy Adams, Edward Everett Hale, and a host of other patriots watched over us all.
The building may have been ordinary, but I shouldn’t have been surprised that the gathering in Mayor Graves’s honor was unlike any other memorial service I’d attended. It seemed every cop and firefighter in Bristol County was present. I hoped everyone who depended on them was safe. This would be the perfect time to throw a brick through someone’s patio door.
Nora and Cody Graves sat on a stage at the front of the large assembly room that had been outfitted for the service with jardinieres and banks of flowers. I wondered if Mrs. Graves was thinking back only three days to a time when she shared a simpler stage setting with her husband on the Henley campus.
Surrounding the mayor’s widow and son were about a dozen people I recognized as city council members, not from lunch dates with them, but from the political literature strewn around at election time. Bruce was more in tune with the VIPs than I was. He’d once served—he would have said hobnobbed with—state and national celebrities and politicians when he worked as a pilot for a private helicopter company. I seemed to remember that Superintendent Collins had been among them at one time. If prompted, Bruce could go on and on, without naming names, about CEOs who played golf during working hours and rock-star women who slipped away for a weekend, allegedly with the girls.
I sat on a folding chair, but not on the stage this time, with a subdued Kira next to me. I wondered how either of us would ever get close enough to Nora to offer a personal greeting. Or, in my case, ferret out a clue that might help find her husband’s killer.
With Kira not interested in conversation, I scanned the assembly for people I knew, spotting a few Henley faculty members, but no Principal Richardson or Superi
ntendent Collins. I figured they’d had their secretaries send flowers and counted that the end of their obligation.
I tuned into the buzz around me, picking up bits of the low-level chatter that precedes any formal gathering. I realized I had a de facto list of words that reached my ears with particular clarity and bias. I heard them now, in succession.
A man behind us to my left complained to his companion, “I should be at a board meeting right now. Services like this are a waste of time.”
Waste. I thought of the city’s contentious waste management contracts.
The mother of a middle schooler, both of whom were sitting in front of us, took the opportunity to bond with her daughter. “Dad and I are so proud of your report card, sweetie. Your grades are so much better than last year.”
Grades. I wondered if the girl was a Zeeman Academy student whose grade was inflated.
Two young women next to me chatted in vivid detail about the faults of their current boyfriends. “Sometimes I want to kill him,” the first said.
Kill. When her friend nodded and exclaimed, “Totally,” I wondered if they’d end the day with a plot to murder each other’s problem guy. I figured this particular association was due in part to the many times I’d watched Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train with Bruce and Virgil.
But on the whole, it was the murder of Mayor Edward P. Graves, and not movie references, that had seemed to consume my mental energy since Saturday night. I was in the middle of a self-inflicted rebuke about this when two voices behind me seemed to rise above the others in my vicinity.
“Thomas is dead,” said the man who wished he was at a board meeting.
“Long live the Stewart Brothers,” said the other.
“Money talks,” said the first.
“Unless you’re dead.”
I hoped no one else had heard the exchange, utterly inappropriate at a memorial service, even if it was late getting started.
Their words bounced back to me, striking a chord in my head. I’d heard the combination of names, Thomas and Stewart, before. Kira’s soft sigh reminded me of when—during her tutorial on the waste management dispute between the mayor and Monty Sizemore. Mayor Graves had wanted to give the contract to the Thomas Company and Monty had preferred the Stewart Company. Or vice versa. I closed my eyes and tried to remember. It came to me. The W. Thomas Company and the Stewart Brothers, that was it. Apparently the mayor’s death ensured the Stewart Brothers victory in the battle.