Annie Seymour 01 - Sacred Cows

by Karen E. Olson

  “She’s a Yale student. Melissa Peabody,” Marty said when I hesitated, his words hanging between us for a few seconds.

  “No shit?” This was an interesting twist.

  “We should find out if it was her apartment.” Marty’s voice was grim.

  I doubted it. It was way too clean for a college student’s apartment. But if not, then whose apartment was it? Who was she with, and why was she there? Another thought leapt across the fog into my brain: Maybe she jumped. Maybe she was one of those kids who just couldn’t hack it. Maybe there was nothing sinister about this.

  But she had been naked. If I was going to off myself, I don’t think I’d strip first. The indignity would be a little too much.

  Marty’s voice brought me back.

  “You know how this screws everything up.” He meant because she was a Yalie. I could feel for him. Our publisher didn’t like bad things to happen at Yale because it meant the prestigious Ivy League institution would have to be slapped across the front page with a 100-point headline about death. Who would want to send their kids there then? New Haven wasn’t exactly standing on its own merits.

  Two calls would be made to the publisher: one from the powers that be at the university lambasting us for publicizing something they’d claim was “private business”; the other from City Hall, lambasting us for ruining the city’s “image.” I didn’t envy Marty, having to go upstairs to that office that I’d been in once and explain that the dead girl on the pavement was some rich, smart kid who was only visiting our fair city while she got the best education money could buy.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed, thankful that my middle-of-the-night outing had somewhat cleared the hangover web from my brain.

  “I need a shower, then I’ll get back out there. Cops are probably still there,” I told Marty.

  I heard the phone click, he’d done his job: He’d gotten me out of bed, he’d threatened me with Dick’s presence. I wasn’t sure I cared enough about this job anymore to worry about some asshole moving in on my territory. There were way too many kids at the paper now, not like it had been fifteen years ago when I started. I was the kid then. I’d joined a crack reporting team, but only three of us were left. Others had moved on, to the Hartford Courant, the Chicago Tribune, the Philadelphia Inquirer. I hadn’t updated my résumé since I’d started at the Herald, more laziness than anything else. But lately I was getting too cynical, even for me. Maybe it was time for a change. This would be the best time, before I got too old and no one would want me and I’d be stuck at the New Haven Herald until I died.

  What a pathetic thought.

  I stood in the shower for the second time in four hours, washing away the crime scene. I could always go work for my father. He’d said that a million times. He’d give me some cushy job at the casino he managed and I would have weekends and holidays off and probably make a helluva lot more money than I was making now. But could I be a flack in Las Vegas? It’s too hot and dry, lights flashing 24/7, glowing in the sunlight, every shabby facade showing its flaws, like all the old prostitutes who dared to bare it all anytime, anyplace.

  When he got the job there, my mother said Vegas was no place to raise a child, so I grew up with a part-time dad. I was in middle school, and my mother and I waited for his weekend visits in our house in Westville, a neighborhood with a large Jewish population, New Haven’s very small-scale Upper West Side with great delis and a synagogue. My mother grew up there in the house we lived in, a big white behemoth that towered over rose gardens and apple trees.

  In high school I started rummaging through desks when no one was home and found old black-and-white pictures of my dad with his arm around strangers in suits, ties, and hats, sitting around the table, cocktails in front of them, cigarettes in unsmiling mouths. One woman in a long, sequined dress, her hair falling into her eyes, her hand on her hip, seemed glamorous, but I wasn’t that naive. Dad grew up in New Haven’s Little Naples, now called Little Italy for those tourists who may not know where Naples is, over on the other side of the city, which is known as the safest neighborhood because of its “connections.” That’s where I live now.

  My mother endured the long-distance relationship with my dad for several years, but finally divorced him when I went to college.

  Technically, I wasn’t really his daughter. My mother divorced my biological father when I was two, and he died a couple of years later, some sort of construction accident. Being a reporter, I could look into it, but my curiosity extends only to those things outside my family. Otherwise I just don’t want to know.

  I shook myself out of my ruminations and gazed longingly at my jeans but pulled on a pair of khakis and a white shirt. The paper was cracking down on the dress code. Too many people coming to work like slobs, the memo said, Fridays were dress-down days. But no jeans, even then.

  Too many rules.

  I didn’t go to the office, but drove straight down Chapel Street. I found a parking spot near the Yale Art Gallery, but only after I’d driven around the block three times. I slipped my press card onto the dashboard, and I walked the rest of the way down to York.

  It always amazed me how on one block, the Gothic buildings of Yale towered over the street, but on the next, the neighborhood started getting seedy; thus the barbed wire that surrounded the apartment building where Melissa Peabody had taken her last breath.

  The cops were still there, the yellow crime scene tape damp from the rain. Thank God the sun was shining today.

  The TV vans were in full force, reporters from the state’s three major stations jockeying for the best position in front of the apartment building, cameramen doing a balancing act with the equipment, the satellite dishes high above the telephone wires. I snorted as I wove between them. Where were they this morning, when the real news was going on? And where would they be after this? Waiting for the press conferences to get their handouts from the cops, less than a minute on the air to muster up some sympathy and outrage from the public.

  The body was gone, but I could see where it had been. My stomach growled, reminding me I could’ve grabbed a coffee and a scone at Atticus, no one would’ve minded. Tom came out of the building, alone. I made my move.

  “You’re back,” he said before I thought he even knew I was there.

  “Like a bad penny.”

  “You have to talk to the chief.”

  I stared at him. “What?”

  “This one’s a little too sensitive.”

  The city police department would get a call from Yale, too, but with a lot more pressure about solving the crime and keeping details out of the press as long as possible.

  “Come on, Tom, give me a break. I’ll never get anything but a ‘no comment’ out of the chief.”

  He shrugged, his big shoulders moving slowly, his hand running through his blond hair. At least I got some sleep. “I’m not supposed to say anything. If I do, and you write about it, then everyone will know I told you.”

  So we haven’t exactly been discreet.

  I spotted Dick Whitfield coming toward us on the sidewalk. “If you tell me something, I’ll make sure he gets out of your way.” It sounded like a good deal to me.

  “Oh, shit, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s harmless.”

  That’s what he thought.

  “I really can’t tell you anything, Annie.” I watched him move away from me, but instead of getting mad, I just wanted to jump his bones. Go figure.

  I’d just have to use my other sources on this one. But then Dick was next to me.

  “They’re being pretty tight-lipped today,” he said jovially, as if we were equals.

  “Why are you here again?”

  “Marty said I should help you.”

  I made a mental note to let Marty have it when I saw him. Marty knows I work alone. Yeah, we’d had the “team player” talk again recently, but I didn’t really think it applied to me. The new kids, well, they didn’t want my help and I certainly couldn’t rely o
n them. It was a me vs. them situation, but neither side minded. It was only Marty, who somehow thought because of my experience I should be some sort of mentor. He should know better. He’s known me a long time.

  Dick stood in front of me, salivating. He was hungry, hungrier than others, but he was such a moron. If he chilled out a little, maybe he wouldn’t be so bad. I needed to give him another job, get him out of my hair.

  “Maybe you can find out whose apartment it is.”

  I got a blank stare.

  “We don’t know if it was her apartment or not,” I continued, wondering if he was even more stupid than I thought.

  A grin swept across his face. “Okay. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  I didn’t want him nosing around Yale. I wanted to find out about her first, talk to her friends to see if they knew anything. Sure, I wanted to know who owned that apartment and why she was there, but this way he could pick up half the legwork and I could put it together later.

  I mulled this over a little. Having a slave might not be too bad.

  THE REGISTRAR wasn’t exactly forthcoming when I asked about Melissa Peabody, what class she was in, where she was from, what dorm she lived in.

  “I’m not allowed to give out that information.” Her mouth sagged with displeasure, wisps of white curls accentuating her wrinkles. Would I look that old someday? “You have to talk to our public information officer.”

  I wouldn’t get shit out of that guy, and she knew it. The school had closed up tighter than a clam.

  My stomach was still growling when I got back out on the sidewalk. The image in my head of Melissa Peabody’s naked body faded as I thought about breakfast at Atticus. It’s a small bookstore with a fabulous coffee bar and wonderful muffins and sandwiches. Before I knew it, I was sitting at the counter, nibbling on a blueberry scone, sipping my coffee as if I didn’t have a care in the world.

  “I can’t believe it,” I heard from somewhere in my vicinity. “I saw her last night. She seemed fine.”

  News travels fast, almost as fast as my head turned to see who was talking.

  Three kids sat a couple of tables away, their expressions grim. Bingo. I hit the jackpot. Having no respect for anyone’s personal space if I could get any information, I picked up my coffee and scone and moved to their table.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear,” I started, “but it sounds like you knew that girl, Melissa, who died last night.” I almost said “took a flying leap,” but in that split second between saying something entirely inappropriate and the right thing, I chose wisely. I don’t always.

  I put my coffee down and pulled one of my cards out of my bag. “Anne Seymour. I’m with the Herald. I saw her, well, after.” I tried to sound meek, and I think I was pulling it off. They sighed collectively and asked me to pull up a chair.

  “Was it really awful?” the girl with the red hair asked. “I mean, well, you know.”

  Fortunately I knew exactly what she was asking and nodded. “Yeah. It was pretty bad. Since you all knew her, could you tell me something about her? I have to write a story, and I hate having to write the gruesome stuff. If I could describe her, make her real, maybe the cops will really push to find out what happened to her.” It was all bullshit. I was surprised they couldn’t smell me coming a mile away. They were Yalies, after all. They were supposed to be smarter than me. I went to a state school, majored in beer and pot and Led Zeppelin. I kept CliffsNotes in business. Who had time to read?

  “She was a sophomore.” The red-haired girl obviously was the leader of this group. She wore pretty silver-framed glasses, and her hands were folded neatly on the table. “I knew her from bio. Biology class,” she added, obviously knowing I didn’t have the SAT scores she did. “She was going to be a doctor.” Weren’t they all?

  I didn’t pull out my notebook, but instead turned on the tape recorder in my head. No need to make it formal just yet. I took a sip of coffee and a bite of scone. If I kept my mouth shut, something I’m not known to do on a regular basis, I knew they’d talk. They wanted to.

  “She was so pretty,” blurted the other girl, a blonde with unfortunate skin. “No wonder David wouldn’t leave her alone.”

  “David?” I prompted.

  The red-haired girl fidgeted with a ring on her finger. “Oh, a guy we know. She went out with him for a little while but broke it off. He had a problem accepting that.”

  The blonde snorted, an ugly, wet sound that made the remnants of my hangover lurch back into my stomach. “A problem accepting that? Are you kidding? He was constantly calling her and trying to see her.”

  A stalker. I liked that. It could be easy. Girl dates boy. Girl rejects boy. Boy throws girl off balcony. Or something like that.

  “It’s not what you think.” The boy, who sported a pierced eyebrow, finally spoke. He was good-looking in that punk sort of way, spiky hair, brooding eyes. If I was eighteen . . . well, I wasn’t.

  “What is it then?” I shook myself back to the matter at hand.

  “She led him on, even after. She called him sometimes, asked him for help moving furniture, getting notes from a class, help with her lab stuff.”

  I knew the type. I was that type. Didn’t really want him around, but it was nice to have someone paying attention. Okay, so nothing’s ever simple.

  “You saw her last night? Was David with her?” I gave them a nudge. My coffee was almost gone but I needed more information, and I needed it faster.

  I felt a rush of cool air on the back of my neck and turned to see the door closing. He was standing at the counter, hands in his pockets, staring at the writing on the blackboard as if it was Greek. He was a Dunkin’ Donuts guy, this caffe latte crap was stumping him. My first impression was that he was a cop, someone I hadn’t crossed paths with before, but there was something different about the way he held his shoulders, his back wasn’t military-straight and his black hair curled around his ears. He looked like one of my father’s henchmen, but better looking, in that Frank Sinatra sort of way, Frank in the ’50s, when he was still lean, when he was with Ava.

  He saw me staring and actually had the balls to wink. A real wink. I turned back to my new friends, who didn’t seem to notice I’d gone away for a minute or so.

  “There was a party,” the pierced guy was saying. “We were all pretty trashed. David was there, but she didn’t leave with him. I didn’t see her leave with anyone.”

  “What time did she leave?”

  He shrugged. “I wasn’t paying too much attention.”

  I squirmed in my chair and glanced out of the corner of my eye back at the counter. He was gone.

  None of them noticed what time Melissa left, although they all saw her consume quite a bit of beer. I finally took their names: Randy was the guy, Helen the pretty redhead, and Cynthia the blonde. They told me Melissa had lived at Davenport, one of Yale’s residential colleges.

  “You might want to talk to Sarah,” Cynthia said quietly.

  “Sarah?”

  “Sarah Lewis. One of her roommates. I know David talked to her a lot.”

  I thanked my new friends after they told me how to get to Davenport College, left them each one of my cards, and said they could call me anytime if they thought of anything else.

  Outside on the sidewalk again, I only felt worse when I saw the parking ticket tucked under my windshield wiper. The cop who left it there completely ignored the “Press” sign in my window.

  I walked away, ignoring the ticket. Since I’d already gotten one, why not leave my car there?

  Davenport College was just up the street, and I found it easily. A young woman was coming out as I reached the gate.

  “I’m looking for Sarah Lewis,” I said. “Do you know where I could find her?”

  She looked me over and shrugged. “She’s not here. I think she might be at the library.”

  I walked across the wide lawn of Cross Campus and approached Sterling Library. On the pavement in front of the building, students wer
e reminded in pink sidewalk chalk of a party at Saybrook College the night before at 9:00 P.M. I neglected to ask the Atticus group where the party had been where they saw Melissa, but I was willing to bet it was the one at Saybrook.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I smelled musty books. My boot heels were loud as they hit the hard floor, and I went up to the desk.

  “I’m looking for Sarah Lewis,” I asked, hoping the librarian had a clue who she was.

  She pointed her nose in the direction of the Starr Reading Room. I went through the thick, dark doors and looked left, then right, at tables of students studying. A lone brunette sat at a table to my right in the back, flipping through pages of a book, but she wasn’t reading; her eyes were resting on the wall behind me, not seeing anything. I took a shot. I walked over to her. “Sarah?”

  She tried to focus, but she seemed incapable.

  “Sarah,” I tried again, sitting down across from her. “My name is Anne Seymour. I’m a reporter from the Herald.”

  Now she saw me, and a flash of anger whipped across her face. “Can’t anyone just leave me alone?”

  Intruding on someone’s grief is something I’ve never been able to do well, despite my reputation. “I’m sorry,” I tried, but I did not get up.

  “I thought no one would find me in here. The police finally let me leave, but they said I couldn’t go back to my room until they were done.” Her shoulders were hunched in that way tall people do to try to disguise their height, and her hair was matted, a little oily. She wore a big sweatshirt that just accentuated how flat-chested she was. Her hands were free of jewelry, although there were small hoops in her earlobes. Her watch was a Swatch, oversized and colorful. Her face was drawn, pale, and two green eyes peered at me.

  “Were you very close?” I asked.

  Sarah managed a small smile. “That’s the bitch of it all. I hated her.”

  “Did you see her last night?” I asked, hoping my face didn’t reveal that she had succeeded in surprising me.