Lost Distinction

by Rachel Sharpe

  Mr. Brack stood in the doorway, hesitantly. While he deliberated the repercussions of leaving Rick and two women alone in a professor’s living quarters, Michelle peered through the white blinds and into the darkness below. “There are three boys outside dressed all in black. Looks like they have toilet paper.”

  Mr. Brack’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Toilet paper, huh? Not on my watch!”

  He marched out of the room and we listened as his footsteps grew lighter. Michelle closed the blinds and shrugged. “I guess we’re not as interesting as toilet paper.”

  “All right, Jordan. We’re here. What are we looking for?”

  I studied the room. It was fairly small, resembling a hotel suite more than an apartment. I could tell immediately that Arthur was just as organized as Rick. Everything was orderly and almost perfectly placed. There was nothing hanging on the beige walls. I marveled at the white crown molding which accented the ceiling of the room.

  Arthur’s full-sized bed was adorned with a simple yet elegant duvet cover. An old footlocker stood at the base of the bed and a pair of brown leather dress shoes was placed atop it, so polished they shined. To the right of the bed, against the back wall, was a modest maple-wood desk.

  An old-fashioned, gold-plated lamp with a green shade was carefully placed on the left corner of the desk. Several hardcover books and spiral notebooks were stacked near the right corner. The center of the desk was bare. Small marks in the veneer suggested a laptop was often moved to and from this location.

  I picked up the first notebook and flipped through it. In neat, black print, it offered a summary of The Canterbury Tales. Other notebooks focused on classics such as Romeo & Juliet, A Tale of Two Cities and The Count of Monte Cristo. Beneath each summary were discussion questions and possible essay topics. As I skimmed through the notebooks, I felt someone move close to me. I turned and saw Rick leaning over my shoulder, peering into the final notebook.

  “Arthur teaches honors English to seniors,” Rick explained. “Some terms, when the school is in a pinch, he’ll take on lower level classes, but he prefers teaching the older students.”

  “Why?” Michelle migrated from standing near the window between the bed and the desk to sitting on the brown, micro-fiber couch against the wall next to the door. “He must have a reason.”

  “He said it’s easier to work with older students. They’re a little more disciplined. They recognize the need to study more.”

  Michelle crossed her thin legs and straightened her dress. “Well, I didn’t go to some fancy, private school, but when I was in high school, it didn’t matter how old kids were. I mean, some kids were good students and some were bad.”

  I turned my attention back to Rick. He stared at her in surprise. “Well, I’m sure that can be true, but in general, he said he felt more comfortable working with older students.”

  While they discussed the relevance of age, I checked Arthur’s bookcase beside the desk. Glancing down, I spotted a small, dark stain. Startled by the sight, I turned quickly, knocking a stack of hardcover books to the ground. The one on top flipped open during its fall. I knelt on the tan carpet to inspect the stain and retrieve the books.

  The stain, it turned out, was red wine. I was disappointed until I looked at the open book. Two items rested beneath the volume. I pulled them out and unfolded them. It became apparent to me that one was an empty, letter-sized envelope addressed to Arthur Cross care of Crowell Academy and postmarked from Whitechapel, Greater London, UK and the other was an article from a Boston newspaper. I pulled out Arthur’s black-leather swivel chair and scanned the story from three weeks earlier.

  NOTED JOURNALIST COMMITS SUICIDE

  NEW YORK — “It is with great sorrow that we announce New York Moment has lost one of its finest journalists,” Editor-in-Chief, Don Martin, announced this morning. “Francine Harris was a fantastic writer and a wonderful person and she will be dearly missed.”

  I read the story about Francine Harris, 26, a paraplegic noted for her determination and grit in seeking journalistic truths. She was found dead in an apparent suicide. Undeterred by her physical limitations, Harris graduated Summa Cum Laude from Harvard and began her career with New York Moment upon graduation. Her talent was immediately noticed and she began to cover some of the paper’s most controversial topics, including immigration issues and teenage pregnancies. Harris’s passion was always for improving the quality of life for those less fortunate. She was survived by her parents, Justin and Amanda Harris of Falmouth, MA and an older brother, Oliver. A funeral was set for June 10 at 10:30 a.m. at the Thomas Funeral Home in Falmouth, MA.

  Beneath the article, in red pen, the words, This is your fault and you WILL pay! were boldly scrolled in a long, left-slanted script on the newspaper margin. I turned the article over but there were no other messages. The way the paper was folded indicated it came in the white envelope from England. I looked over at Rick and handed him the article. He skimmed it quickly.

  “Do you know a Francine Harris?”

  Rick shook his head before handing the article to Michelle, who by this time had walked over to us.

  She read it as well and frowned. “I’ve never heard of this woman before. Why would anyone send this to Arthur?”

  “I don’t know. If it came in this envelope, someone sent it from England. Could there be a connection to Mr. Cross?”

  At this, Rick cringed. Michelle ran her fingers through her silky hair and stared down at the article. “It’s possible, but God, I hope not.”

  We stood there in silence, considering the significance of this discovery. Although there was still no proof, this threat suggested there could have been more to Arthur’s disappearance than we realized. If Arthur was kidnapped, we might not be looking for a missing person. We might be looking for a murderer or his victim.

  I suddenly felt a new anxiety about this case. The more I considered all the unknowns, the more I realized there was only one person who could provide some much-needed answers, Ambassador Gatlin Cross.

  Chapter 9

  We did not stay in Arthur’s apartment much longer. I found evidence that he had planned to be gone for an unknown period of time. His closet was nearly empty. His bathroom was devoid of standard toiletries, such as his toothbrush and shampoo. When I located a small, black-leather photo album with pictures of Arthur, friends and family during his high school years, Rick eyed it warily.

  “Come on, Jordan. We should get going. We won’t get back to the house until two, so—”

  Unfortunately for Rick, he was traveling with two nosy females. I sat on the edge of Arthur’s footlocker and flipped through the pictures. I stopped on one particular photo, which appeared to have been taken at a park. A crowd had gathered before a makeshift bandstand. On the bandstand was a group of teenage boys. A young Arthur was easily recognizable as he passionately tackled an electronic keyboard. A ginger-haired boy appeared to be destroying a drum set in the background and a short boy with brown hair and sunglasses was strumming the bass. My attention left these three individuals as soon as I focused on the lead singer and guitarist.

  A tall, thin boy with short, brown hair was strumming a black-and-white Fender Strat and singing into a microphone. My heart skipped a beat when I recognized it was Rick. He glanced at the photo with a pained expression before walking over to the desk and sitting on Arthur’s swivel chair. Michelle sat beside me and pointed at young Rick.

  “Huh. You guys really did have a band. I thought Eddie was kidding. Where was this picture taken?”

  Without making eye contact, Rick muttered, “Battle of the bands contest in high school.”

  Michelle flipped through the pages. Someone had taken different shots of the band from different angles. The one constant in all the photos was that Rick was the only one not smiling. The other three had goofy grins on their faces throughout. I looked over at Rick. His eye was more swollen than it had been when we first arrived in Middletown.

&
nbsp; “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he mumbled. “I just think we should head back.”

  Michelle had continued flipping through the album and reached several photos from one Christmas morning. She pointed to a shot of Arthur and his brothers grinning in front of a 12-foot-tall, blue spruce, richly adorned in red-and-gold ornaments and a mountain of perfectly-wrapped presents.

  It appeared to have been taken fifteen years earlier. Stuart and Eddie were easily recognizable. I could also make out George. His current, stocky form appeared to have developed from his formerly pudgy youth. Arthur and William seemed to be in their preteens and both sported big smiles with braces. An unknown boy stood between George and Arthur. He offered a preoccupied expression.

  “That’s Henry,” Michelle said, pointing to the dazed youth. He resembled his brothers, sporting short, blond hair and green eyes, but even at that age, he had something different about him. I found myself wondering what it was about Henry the family found so shameful that he was sent to London.

  Before I had a chance to inquire, Michelle closed the album and yawned. “We probably should go. It’s been a long day and I don’t want Eddie to worry.”

  Michelle headed for the door with the photo album beneath her arm. I motioned for it. At first, she pretended not to notice. When I insisted, she heaved an exaggerated sigh but handed it over.

  “You’re no fun,” she pouted. “Kathryn has all the family photos and won’t part with a single one. I just wanted to make some copies.”

  I placed the album back on the bookcase where I found it. “I’m sure if you ask Arthur, he won’t mind your borrowing them.”

  Michelle continued to grumble as we walked out of the room. We waited in the hallway while Rick turned off the lights and locked the door. I glanced at the notes pinned to Arthur’s bulletin board. It appeared his students wrote all of them.

  I was disappointed when I realized none of them struck me as being significant or out of the ordinary. I carefully folded the envelope and article about Francine Harris then handed them to Rick as we walked down the hallway. He stuck them in his coat pocket.

  When we exited the building, Michelle and I started walking toward the courtyard, which led to Ridgeley Hall where our cars were parked. I stopped when I sensed that Rick was not with us. He stood near the entrance to Arthur’s apartment building and stared past it, in the direction of a grove of oak trees. I glanced back at Michelle and she nodded at Rick. I approached him in silence. When I was a few yards away, he finally noticed me.

  “You okay?”

  He nodded, his gaze returning to the darkness. “Haven’t been back here since I graduated. Swore I never would.”

  He took a few steps toward the grove and paused. I took his right hand in my left. He smiled absently.

  “Is there anywhere you’d like to go since you’re here now?” I asked.

  He didn’t reply. Still holding my hand, we headed across the magnificently manicured lawn and to the grove. We walked through the trees in complete darkness. After several moments, moonbeams broke through the branches and I realized that we were nearing a large, crystal-blue lake. The moonlight danced across the calm water, offering the illusion of sparkling diamonds. We finally stopped in front of an old, wooden dock.

  “This is Lake Wiyon. It’s the Mohegan word for moon,” Rick said, looking across the soothing water. “The way the moon reflects across the lake gives the illusion that it’s looking up at itself. The Mohegans recognized this and that’s why they called it Wiyon. It seemed a lot bigger to me back then.”

  My interest was in neither the Wiyon nor the lake, but instead in Rick. “Did you spend a lot of time out here?”

  “I was on the sculling team all four years.” He ambled across the dock. It groaned in protest under his weight. He stopped at its edge and sat down with his legs dangling mere feet above the water.

  Awkwardly, I stumbled across the dock for a few moments before giving up and removing my heels. I hurried across the platform in my hose-clad feet and stopped when I reached him. A single boat was tied loosely to the wharf and slapped against the waters in a rhythmic manner, which created a loud sound.

  “Sculling. That’s a form of rowing, right? Was Arthur on the team, too?” It became obvious that sitting on a pier in a tight, black cocktail dress was not going to happen. Sighing, I shifted my weight and crossed my arms.

  Rick was oblivious to my ordeal. “No, Arthur wasn’t really into sports. That bothered his father a lot. His brothers, even William, all excelled at sports. Football, lacrosse, track, rugby. But Arthur, he’s smart, not strong. According to the ambassador, a Cross should be both.”

  “So, by that twisted logic, William’s a better son?” Rick didn’t reply, but his eyes steeled. “Wow.”

  I tried to imagine the meretricious William Cross doing anything that could result in damage to his face or thin frame and found it impossible. Mr. Cross saw more value in a sleaze-ball son than one who dedicated his life to helping children? I liked this family less and less.

  Thinking about William reminded me of the incident at the club that resulted in Rick’s shiner and I felt myself becoming angry again. I took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “So why didn’t you want to come back here? It seems like a nice school.”

  Rick swung his legs around and stood up. He walked to the land again with me in tow. “It is a good school. It’s just, well, that time in my life I, well, like I’ve told you before, I was really angry about what happened to my dad. Hit me hardest in high school. That’s where Arthur came in. I felt an instant connection to him even before we realized we were related. Our friendship, I needed it. I guess what I’m saying is I have a lot of bittersweet memories here and when I graduated, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to come back again without rehashing them.”

  He paused when we were in the center of the grove. Gently, he brushed my hair behind my ear. “You have no idea how much your solving my father’s case meant to me. It can’t bring him back, but it’s brought me a sense of closure and a peace I’ve never felt before. I can never fully thank you for that.”

  I couldn’t see him but I knew he was near. With my shoes in my left hand, I stepped closer and fell into his arms. He kissed me passionately before releasing me and taking my right hand, leading me through the grove and back toward the dorms.

  When we were a few yards away, I looked around for Michelle. We headed in the direction of the courtyard, both assuming she had made her way to the cars and was waiting for us. I was startled when we entered the courtyard and saw her sitting at the base of the statue of Phineas Crowell with three young boys dressed in black sitting around her in the grass. At first, I thought something was wrong but my fears were alleviated as soon as I heard her laugh.

  Rick strode up to the statue and his presence caught the teens off-guard. They jumped to their feet and backed away from us nervously. Michelle, still seated, waved her hand in an airy manner. “Oh, don’t worry about him.”

  “Is that your husband?” one of the boys with white-blond hair and gray-blue eyes asked, taking another step back.

  Michelle glanced at Rick and laughed again. “Who? Him? No. He’s with her.” She pointed gracefully at me and the boys noticed me for the first time. Although I would consider myself semi-attractive on a good day, I was no match for Michelle’s radiance. Not even on her worst day. They lost interest in me quickly and returned to her feet like helpless puppies. Rick stood beside me at a loss for words.

  “Uh, Michelle? What—what is this?”

  Michelle smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Oh, nothing. I was just waiting for you two.” Pausing, she winked. “Honestly.”

  “Yeah.” A lanky boy with acne on his cheeks and shaggy brown hair scoffed at her response. “That and saving our butts.”

  “And just how did she do that?” Rick inquired, crossing his arms like a suspicious parent. Michelle stood and flipped her hair back as
she glided over toward us, her fan club following close behind.

  “Richard, really, it was nothing.”

  A second boy with short brown hair and a fairly-clear complexion threw his hands in the air in exasperation. “Nothing? You seriously saved us. We would’ve been dead if Brackish caught us.”

  At this, I noticed a slight grin creep across Rick’s face. He hid the smile behind his hand, pretending to scratch his lip. “What happened?”

  The boy with blond hair stepped closer. He appeared to be no more than fifteen-years-old and had clearly not hit his growth spurt yet. Despite being vertically-challenged, he was larger than life thanks to his mannerisms. “We were coming out here tonight to roll that statue, right,” he began, motioning at the school’s illustrious founder. “We were so careful but somehow, Brackish knew we were here. Dude’s got dog ears or something. When we realized he was coming, we split. We had just passed Ridgeley Hall when we see this wicked hot, uh—”

  He stopped speaking and his face turned a bright shade of crimson. Michelle smiled politely, clearly used to her impact on the opposite sex, and we waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, the boy with acne added, “We saw her leaning against this sick ride. I mean, it was, well, anyway, Brackish was getting closer, right? We panicked. Then, she says, ‘Get in the car.’ She leaned against the front, blocking his view. When he asked about us, she told him we ran away and he charged off toward the baseball field!”

  They cracked up at this and gave each other high fives. The second boy turned his attention to Michelle. “You’re wicked awesome.” Pausing, he frowned. “You really married?”

  Michelle held up her ring finger, which was sporting a massive diamond. All three boys sighed. Rick scratched his neck.

  “You guys wouldn’t happen to know Professor Cross, would you?”

  The boy with blond hair regained his voice. “Oh, yeah. He’s cool.”

  “He’s my cousin. When was the last time you saw him?”

  The boys looked at each other before the boy with acne replied, “I guess two weeks ago. He was supposed to teach some sophomore English class, but he bailed.”