Christine opened her mouth to protest, but Hope intervened, raising her hands. “Okay, you two. Enough. I’d like to watch the rest of the game in peace. Nice to meet you, Ricky. I hope we’ll see you around this weekend. Too bad Karen’s in Whitley Hall or she could help you get settled.”
“Thanks. I hope I’ll get a chance to meet her.”
“Stick around after the game and I’ll see if I can grab her. Come on, Jar, humor me and watch at least for a few minutes.”
Phelps allowed himself to be dragged off, but not before turning to wink at me over Hope’s head. I gave him a wave, receiving an icy glare from Christine Parnell, who trailed along behind them. The game ended five minutes later, and as it turned out, the coach hustled the team to the locker room, leaving no time for chatting or introductions. As I crossed the empty field, I spotted Phelps deep in conversation with a small group of parent types. Hope and Christine stood at the edge of the group, waiting for him.
As I drove back through town, I prayed that Lolly had arrived and found us a great place to eat. I was starved and it was time to forget Jared Phelps, missing children and mysterious suicides for a few hours.
CHAPTER 9
I found Lolly stretched out on the bed when I returned to the room. She had already secured a reservation at Jacob’s in Northfield—“far from the reuning crowd”—and was showered and changed for dinner. As always, she looked terrific—tall, slim and chic, dressed in pale blue linen shorts and matching blazer, her straight, shoulder-length chestnut hair perfectly coifed, not a hair out of place. As I showered and primped, she pulled one of two easy chairs close to the bathroom door and sat smoking Benson and Hedges extra-longs, her long legs propped up on the bed, catching me up on her family’s news. Whenever we get together the years fall away and we turn into adolescents again, whispering and laughing after “lights out” as we plot our next caper.
Primp and preen as I might, it was useless. I looked frumpy and rumpled no matter what I put on. I finally settled on a white cotton tee shirt over a short stretchy black skirt with a red cotton cardigan thrown over my shoulders.
Lolly’s charcoal eyes twinkled as she pulled a fifth of Jack Daniel’s from her suitcase and poured us a drink. “You’ve lost weight, haven’t you? You look wonderful.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” I grinned, plopping down in the chair beside her. “Course the last time you saw me, I was still recovering from all my surgeries, and don’t forget, my breasts were tiny so I probably lost five pounds of breast tissue.”
Lolly’s eyes softened as she studied me. “I’m glad you look so well, Rick. You feelin’ okay, really?”
“Yup.”
“You’ve been working out, haven’t you?”
“A little, you know, yoga every day, free weights when I remember, some Tae Bo when it rains, otherwise jogging or walking. All depends on my mood and how much work I’ve got. When I’m really flush, I join the gym for a few months.”
We discussed the merits of free weights over machines, running over walking, and Tae Bo versus aerobics. Finally, waving her hands, she fixed her dark eyes on me. “So, we’ve covered health, exercise, your newest silicone prostheses, my life, Ron and the kids, your various and sundry occupations. Now, my friend, it’s time to tell me why we’re here.”
“To reune, of course.”
“Bullshit. I don’t hear from you since your surgeries and—”
“Has it been that long?”
“Yes… No… Don’t interrupt. I don’t hear from you for nearly three years, and then suddenly you’re calling up, wanting to have this big reunion. Come on, sweetie, I know you. You hate this place with a passion. In fact, as I recall, you swore at graduation you’d never set foot in this hellhole again.”
“I wanted to see you, Loll.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t ‘Loll’ me, Ricky Steele. We can meet at the beach anytime. I checked the Whitley website last night and read the weekend schedule. Your dad’s speaking. Does this mean you guys have reconciled? Is that why we’re here?”
“Hardly.”
“Then what? ‘Cause if you want me to prance around all weekend acting the part of dutiful alumna, I want to know the reason. Now ‘fess up.”
“Okay, but you have to promise you won’t say anything to Katie. You know she’s still best friends with everyone around here and no telling whom she might blab to. In fact, I’ll be very surprised if, by the time she gets here, they haven’t asked her to give a speech.”
Lolly laughed, tapping out her cigarette and lighting another. “They have and she is.”
“I see you haven’t cut down. You know you’re the only person I let smoke in my bedroom.”
“I don’t smoke at home. Ron’s like you—a real exercise fanatic. Flips out if I light up.” She threw the pack at me.
“Good man, Ron,” I said, setting the pack aside.
“Never mind him. What’s going on?”
I filled her in, starting with Muriel’s phone call and wrapping up my tale with a description of my recent encounter with Jared Phelps. When I finished, all she could say was, “I don’t believe it.”
As we headed out to dinner, we discussed the Whitley of today versus the prison of yesteryear. Jacob’s is a quiet, intimate restaurant on a side street one town over. When we arrived the parking lot was full. The maître d’, a tall, willowy brunette in a clinging, sleeveless sundress, suggested we take a seat in the lounge while we waited for our table. We grabbed a corner table in the dark, smoky lounge, deciding to eat there since Lolly wanted to smoke and smoking was prohibited in the main dining room. “There’s not many places left for us puffers,” she whined, lighting another.
“Thank goodness.”
We ordered a bottle of Chianti and sat back, reminiscing. Usually when Lolly and I get together, we avoid the subject of Whitley, but tonight, we dredged up things I hadn’t thought about in forty years, laughing until tears ran down our cheeks. By tacit agreement, we refrained from talking about the current school crisis and my improbable role as a private investigator for fear someone might be listening. The bar was crowded, patrons standing all around us. Who knew who might be listening? As we sat enjoying the special—a crispy glazed duck—Lolly licked greasy fingers and leaned across the table, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. “What I want to know is, why the hell they’re not involving the police in trying to find this runaway student.”
“It’s insane, I know, but the general consensus is that her friends know where she is, and she’s all right.” I leaned forward, my shirt grazing the duck, leaving a streak of brown grease across my chest. “Shit, I need a bib,” I muttered, vainly attempting to dab it off. The streak metamorphosed into a wet, angry blob covering both breasts.
Lolly laughed, daintily gnawing on a duck leg. “Leave it. It’ll dry. What’ll we do after this? Hit the clubs?”
“Maybe a quick stop at Harrigan’s?” I said, referring to the bar in downtown Westfield whose owner had allowed us to drink in his backroom. “Mikey Harrigan must be a hundred by now.”
“If he’s still with us. This duck is fabulous, by the way, but I’m full. What about you?”
“Just about.” I poked around under the carcass for a few more morsels. Then, gazing up to search for our waitress, I spied a familiar face.
CHAPTER 10
Jonathan Kroll, head of the religion department, was making his way through the crowd to the bar. A short wisp of a creature clung to his arm. Mrs. Kroll, I presumed. Following in their wake was another couple, tall, athletic guy, blond hair slicked back, his companion, also blonde and at least twenty years younger than Mr. Slick, who appeared to be in his late forties.
There was something vaguely familiar about Mr. Slick and I wondered if I might have seen him around campus. His arm circled the blonde’s waist as he drew her forward as if to say to onlookers, “Here she is, my trophy date.” He was dressed casually in khakis and a green sport shirt, the collar opened halfway
down his chest. I wondered if I peered down his shirt I’d find a gold medallion or two. His date was six inches shorter. Her blond hair did not look natural—for that matter, neither did his—but it was a quality dye job nonetheless.
I hate to be sexist, but let’s face it, she was a bimbo, boobs bursting out of a skintight sleeveless jersey. If her skirt had been any shorter, her ass would have been on display along with the rest of her. Somehow, this couple didn’t go with the Krolls. I leaned forward, whispering to Lolly, “I guess we’re not the only ones escaping the alumni.” Our check arrived as I was filling her in on my brief encounter with Jonathan Kroll.
We picked through our wallets and divided the bill in half.
“Are you ladies clearing out?” It was Kroll. He gave Lolly a smarmy grin.
As she nodded, he turned to me. “Ms. Steele, isn’t it? I didn’t see you there. We don’t want to rush you or anything.”
Sure you don’t, I thought, gathering my things and holding my sweater in front of me to hide the duck stain. “That’s okay. We’re heading out.”
“Guess you had the same idea we did,” Lolly said, never one to be ignored. “You know, escape from Reunion Central.”
He laughed. “Something like that. Actually, Paula and I live in Northfield.” He gestured to his companions, who moved closer. “This is my wife, Paula Kroll. Ricky Steele and?”
I introduced Lolly as the other two joined us. Jonathan explained to his friends who I was and what I was doing at Whitley. The other woman looked bored, but Paula smiled, saying, “That’s so kind of you. I know Christine will be happy to have you take over at Round House.” Like her husband, Paula Kroll oozed crunchy granola, although her wholesomeness seemed more genuine. Her thin, pale face, framed with wispy strands of light brown hair, lit up when she smiled, her expression reminding me of the pixies in my old storybooks. She wore a midcalf-length denim skirt and long-sleeved peasant blouse, her thin waist cinched up with a brightly embroidered cloth belt.
“Do you work at Whitley also?” I asked, returning her smile.
“Oh, no.” She laughed, patting her husband’s arm.
“Paula’s a musician.” Her husband could not have looked prouder had Paula been his first-born going off to Harvard.
“Oh, what do you play?”
“Cello, a little piano, too. Sometimes, I—”
A hand shot in front of Paula, silencing her. “Gerry Weinstein, hi.”
I considered ignoring his boorish gesture, but after giving Paula an apologetic smile, I turned, taking his hand. Don Johnson in his Miami Vice days came to mind. “Ricky Steele. And this is my friend and fellow alumna, Lolly Pruit.”
We exchanged some idle chitchat about the joys and pleasures of reuning before Weinstein remembered his companion, whom he introduced as “Wendy Gold, no connection to Whitley, except through me.” If she’d been any more bored, Wendy would have been snoring.
By the time we departed, I’d learned that Gerry Weinstein taught chemistry and biology, he’d been a good friend of Carolyn Santos—who hadn’t?—and he hadn’t a clue where Missy Franklin might be hiding out. He did add, however, that “she’s definitely in hiding. No cause for alarm. Kids all know where she is and they’re not upset, so she’s okay, believe me.” I didn’t, but kept my mouth shut.
As we strolled across the parking lot, Lolly pulled out a cigarette. “What’s with that crowd, anyway? The faculty has certainly changed since our day. Haven’t seen a blouse like Paula’s since Woodstock. And the Muriel we know and love wouldn’t have let Barbie and Ken past the main gates. How many implants do you think she’s had? ”
“Implants, you think?”
“When did Mother Nature ever create anything that big? Besides, everyone’s getting work done. I mean, not me, of course, but all my friends are getting tucked, liposuctioned, implanted and lasered.”
“I’m still considering implants, you know…in terms of reconstruction. You wouldn’t make fun of me, would you?”
“That’s different and you know it.”
“They can also use my own tissue, but I’m not sure. I do know I’m sick of these silicone blobs. Small as they are, they’re heavy and uncomfortable, especially in the heat, and I am really sick of wearing these straight-jacket pocket bras.”
“God, I hate bras.”
“If I have reconstruction, and they’re small enough, no more bras for me. Not sure I’m quite ready for another round of surgeries, but soon.”
“Say the word and I’ll be there, dearie. Holding your hand, your bedpan, whatever. Besides, it’d give me a chance to see gorgeous Vinnie again. How is the man these days, anyway?”
“Just fine, gorgeous as ever, and doesn’t he know it.”
“Seriously, Rick, implants or not, you look great. When you pulled on your tee shirt tonight, you couldn’t tell a thing. Never know they were falsies.”
We lapsed into silence as Lolly drove back, winding through Westfield’s backstreets, searching for Harrigan’s. As we made our fourth pass along Main Street, she sighed. “It’s amazing how these streets have changed.”
I was beginning to get a migraine just thinking about the next day—playing at detective, not to mention having to see my father. “Lolly, would you mind terribly if we skipped Harrigan’s tonight? I’m completely beat and we’re not having much luck finding it. Maybe we should wait and check with someone tomorrow, see if it’s still in operation. Katie will probably remember exactly where it is, and besides, you know she’ll want to go, too.”
“Say no more. An after-dinner Jack-in-the-black at the Breeze Bye sounds like the perfect end to the day for me.”
Five minutes later we were at our door, fussing and fiddling with the finicky lock. “What kind of place uses metal keys anymore?” she said, jiggling the key. “Eureka, we’re in!” Pushing open the door, we flicked on the light to find a surprise waiting on the table. Two dozen roses in a crystal vase swathed in velvet ribbon sat on the table.
Lolly whistled, moving across the room. “The kooks running this place couldn’t have sent these, could they? Now, lemme see. There’s a card. Do you think Briarwood, or maybe Bob? You know how gushy and sentimental he is. Well, well…the card is sealed and it’s addressed to you.” She threw it at me.
I sat down, slowly loosening the flap, almost afraid to read the message. His handwriting was fluid and graceful, the message short and to the point. “Ricky, I’m sorry about today. I have some materials for you. Let’s meet for breakfast at 7:00 a.m., Alberta’s on Route 7. D.”
“So?” Impatient, Lolly craned her neck over my shoulder, reading the message herself. “D? Could that be darling Dinny? Yes, I believe it is! Is he as handsome as ever?”
“‘Fraid so.” I was annoyed to find myself blushing. “Don’t start, Loll. I mean it!”
By unspoken agreement, we said no more about Dinny Petty or Whitley School’s current problems for the next few hours, laughing and regaling each other with tales of lives lived over the past few years. Lolly’s stories about Ron, whom she adored, were particularly amusing since they all revolved around his many inadequacies and all the steps she had to take in order to make up for them. We finally fell asleep a little after midnight.
CHAPTER 11
Late as usual, I met Dinny in the parking lot of Alberta’s a little after seven. Waving away my apologies, he ushered me inside. As if on cue, the lady herself, all three hundred pounds of her, emerged from the kitchen to escort us to a table in a small back room. “This is a private room,” Alberta said, stating the obvious while swishing two menus in front of us. “I will take your order myself after Cecilia brings coffee.”
Dinny smiled up at her. “Thanks, Al.”
Did she blush? Beads of sweat rimmed her upper lip, her hair invisible under a tall white chef’s hat. She winked first at him, then me, before disappearing, and shutting the door behind her.
I didn’t say a word, not one word, but I did a lot of smiling behind my menu. True t
o her word, Alberta returned several minutes later, listened to our selections, then bullied us into what she thought would be better ones. Spying our empty coffee cups, she left in a huff. Ten seconds later, a contrite Cecilia materialized. I sipped my excellent coffee gratefully, the memory of the Breeze Bye special American-Columbian blend fading away. I’m normally a tea drinker, but sometimes a great cup of coffee hits the spot.
When Cecilia vanished, he looked up at me. “I’m sorry about yesterday, Ricky. Something urgent came up.”
“No problem. I’m here for my reunion, remember? I had a great night with Lolly. How ‘bout you?”
“What? Oh, fine…yes, everything went well.” He looked down at the table, then reached into his breast pocket. “I have the rest of the letters here in an envelope, but this came yesterday, just before you arrived.” He tossed a folded paper on the table, burying his head in his hands. “It’s such an awful mess and gets worse by the hour. Not a thing I can do about it either.”
It was ordinary white computer paper. The print looked like 18- or 20-point Courier, all caps. The caption read, “Too bad Dinny couldn’t be here.” A color picture probably cut from a bedding catalog had been pasted above the words, the circular heads of a woman and Jared Phelps side by side on the pillows. She was pretty, in a preppy, blue blood sort of way, patrician features, blond hair caught by the wind.
“Your wife, I’m guessing.”
Dinny nodded, on the verge of tears. “He’s taken pictures from old yearbooks and copied them. Ellen’s is from one of her first years here. She taught at Whitley, before we had the kids.”
“What does he want, do you think?”
“God only knows. The man’s sick. Christine’s temper tantrum right after I’d seen that, really did me in. It’s all such bullshit, you know?” His eyes filled up and for an instant I thought he might burst into tears.
Prepped to Kill (Ricky Steele Mysteries Book 1) Page 6