Murder at Birchwood Pond

by Jade Astor

  At last, after everyone else had left, Darian heard himself summoned. Chief Davis led him down a short hall and into a small office. Dining services catalogs and other materials obscured most of the desk, but Argo Sullivan had cleared a space in front of him. He held a pocket-sized notebook open to a fresh page with one hand and held a black ballpoint pen in the other. Darian spotted his own name written at the top of the page as he took a seat in the straight-backed chair opposite. Reading things upside down, no matter how bad the handwriting, was a skill he had honed while teaching.

  “Darian Winter.” Sheriff Sullivan announced his name rather than asking it.

  “That’s right.”

  “How long have you been teaching at Birchwood Academy?”

  “This is my first year here. So only about six weeks.”

  “Oh yeah?” Sullivan feigned surprise, but Darian didn’t think for a moment that the sheriff was asking him questions he didn’t already know the answers to. “Did you grow up in this area?”

  “Nope. I’m from Florida.” As I’m sure you’ve already found out, he wanted to add. But he didn’t.

  “Your family’s down there?”

  The slight emphasis he put on the word ‘family’ told Darian exactly what else he’d found out.

  “That’s right,” he said without elaborating.

  “Do you like it in New Hampshire?”

  “Sure I do. It’s a nice enough place. Isn’t it? I mean, excluding today’s unpleasant events.”

  “Colder than you’re used to.”

  “True. Though so far it hasn’t been bad.”

  Sullivan tapped his pen on the desk’s olive green blotter like he was playing a drum with one hand. “So you knew him?”

  “Timothy Pryor? Yes.” He almost added not well, but TV cop shows had taught him never to say more than necessary. Doing that made people look like they were hiding something.

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. He was talking to Everett Finch just outside my classroom window. I was inside, teaching, so I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”

  Everett would have confirmed that, he assumed, so he saw no need to conceal it. Again the sheriff feigned surprise. “They were having a private conversation?”

  “I suppose you could call it that. They were in a common area, though. Anyone who wasn’t in a classroom, or was near a classroom window, would have seen them.”

  “Did they seem to be arguing?”

  “The discussion looked…animated. But Everett Finch is always like that. You’ve met him.”

  Sullivan’s mouth tightened. “Okay. Tell me how you found the body. Include any details you can think of. Never know what might be important.”

  “There isn’t much to tell. I started my run and then I just…saw him there. I didn’t have my phone with me, so I ran back to tell someone.”

  “You just turned and ran back right away?”

  “Within a few seconds. There was a moment when I thought I heard something—a whispery sound, like a branch moving. I looked around but I didn’t see anything, so I guess it was an animal or maybe just the breeze.”

  “Okay.” Sullivan jotted something in his notebook. He held it at an angle, so Darian couldn’t read it this time. “Go on.”

  “I got back to campus and shouted for help. A couple of the campus cops heard me, so I led them back down to the water. I guess they called 911 or whatever. Gradually other people came to see what was going on and before long a crowd had gathered. You know the rest.”

  “So when you spotted he body, you didn’t have your phone with you? You didn’t think you should carry it with you in case something happened when you were out there alone?”

  “Not really. I know the trail pretty well at this point. I’m careful.”

  “I’m sure you are. But let’s face it. You never know what you might find out in the woods, especially near the water.”

  “You mean wild animals?” Darian had a sudden, irrational thought of a Tyrannosaurus Rex lurking at the edge of campus. “I’m sure they’re around, but I’ve never seen anything bigger or more threatening than a rabbit.”

  “Still, the brush is pretty thick around the banks in some places. Not easy to see what’s going on out there. If a runner fell and twisted his ankle, say, it might take a while to find him.”

  “Or if he fell in the water?”

  “Sure. That too.” Sullivan shrugged and settled back in his chair. “So when you saw the body floating there, and you realized it was Timothy Pryor, you didn’t try to wade in and see if you could help him?”

  “No.” Darian swallowed. The hideous image of Timothy in the water, bloated and rigid, bobbed to the surface of his mind. Remembering it was almost worse than experiencing it the first time around. “I mean, obviously that was my first impulse. But I immediately realized that he was way past reviving.”

  “Do you have medical training?” Again he heard a sarcastic lilt in Sullivan’s voice.

  “No. But it would have been obvious to anyone that Timothy was dead. I mean, he was…stiff.”

  Sullivan paused. Either he was giving Darian a moment to collect himself, or he was waiting for him to trip up and blurt something out. He didn’t.

  “When was the last time you spoke to Timothy—one on one?”

  “Early yesterday morning. By the pond. Close to the same spot where I found him today, in fact.”

  Sullivan made a mark in his notebook. “Go on.”

  “I was jogging, and he stepped out of a little stone shelter near the shore. He said hello and we chatted for a moment, and then I moved on. I had to finish my route, head back to the athletic facility, and get cleaned up in time for my first class. I guess he headed back to campus, too, assuming he had to be somewhere first period.”

  “He was hanging around the pond for no reason? You don’t have rules about that kind of thing?”

  “There could have been a reason, but no one at the school would have known what it was. Timothy is—was—a gap year student. That’s someone who’s already graduated, but come back for another year before college.”

  Sullivan nodded. “I know what it is.”

  “Well, my point is that Timothy was over eighteen, a legal adult. We don’t insist that the seniors or the gappers be in any particular place when they’re not in class. That’s just for underclassmen. If they want to walk by the pond or even leave campus when they’re not scheduled for a class, that’s okay.”

  Sullivan’s chilly blue eyes flashed, and his thin mouth tightened. Worried he might be saying too much, Darian fell silent and simply stared at him. It wasn’t exactly a chore. The curve of the guy’s stern, hastily shaved jaw could have occupied his attention for quite some time.

  “Did you get the sense he was meeting someone there?” Sullivan finally asked.

  “I didn’t see anyone else.”

  Sullivan’s brows lifted. Darian hadn’t actually answered his question, and both of them realized it. “Did he strike you as a loner? The type who enjoyed solitary nature walks first thing in the morning?”

  “Not really. Though I suppose anyone can decide to go off by himself to think for a while.”

  “Timothy have academic problems?”

  Darian caught himself as he was about to repeat what Everett had said about Timothy not doing his schoolwork, even though this was his second time around at Birchwood. It wasn’t his tale to tell. “He wasn’t in any of my classes, so I don’t know.”

  Another long silence stretched between them. Darian tried not to fidget. Sullivan tapped his pen on the blotter again. Then he stopped and put it down in front of him.

  “What exactly was your relationship with the deceased?”

  “We had no relationship. Like I said, he wasn’t even in any of my classes. I just saw him around.”

  “So it wouldn’t actually have been forbidden for you to spend time with him.”

  “What?”

  “I mean,
he knew you well enough to stop you while you were jogging and talk to you. Even though you haven’t been at Birchwood very long and you weren’t one of his instructors.”

  “That was Timothy for you. He was…outgoing.” Darian regretted saying it the moment the last word left his mouth. “Anyway, we all know each other on this campus. It’s a small school.”

  “Exactly. Would you describe the atmosphere here as…intimate?”

  The way he said it sounded vaguely dirty. Darian struggled inside. He didn’t have to answer that, or anything. On the other hand, invoking his rights and bolting from the cramped little office would make him look even more suspicious than he probably already did.

  “I don’t know. It’s a small campus. We all know each other by sight, more or less, if that’s what you mean.”

  Argo tilted his notebook and pretended to scribble something down. Darian knew he wasn’t really writing anything. He’d seen students do the same thing, countless times, when they were goofing off but pretending to take notes. Back in his student days, he’d even done it himself a few times.

  “Another thing I’m curious about. When you came across Timothy’s body, he was floating face down. You couldn’t have recognized him by his clothes for obvious reasons, yet even in that murky water you knew who it was right away.”

  “I could tell it was him.”

  “Okay. I accept that. Like you said, it’s a small campus. Or maybe you just realized it was him because you were expecting him to be there.”

  Darian was still controlling his tone and body language, but inside, he began to seethe. He knew perfectly well what Sullivan was implying.

  “What? Why should I?”

  “That’s a question. I was hoping for an answer, Mr. Winter.”

  He refused to take the bait. “Yes, he’d been at the stone shelter the morning before. But I had no reason to think he’d be there again. So no.”

  “Okay. Fair enough.” Sullivan leaned back. He picked up his pen again. This time he held it up to his chest and stroked it with the tips of his fingers. “I suppose you must be a bit lonely here in New Hampshire. Far from home. Different environment. Has it been hard for you to settle in?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Why would it be any different for me than for anyone else who has to relocate for a new job?”

  Sullivan flashed him an icy smile. “You’re asking me questions again.”

  Darian bristled. Why was this jerk of a cop so sure he didn’t have a partner? And what was the purpose for these questions? Timothy had died in a tragic accident, swimming in that dark, cold water for reasons known only to himself.

  Hadn’t he?

  A sudden thought struck Darian. “Timothy’s clothes,” he said. “Did you find them? I mean, he must have left them somewhere nearby.”

  “We did, in fact. They were neatly folded and left inside the little stone structure you mentioned before. His shoes, too. Expensive leather loafers. The kid had good taste and a big shopping budget.”

  “Most of the students here do,” Darian admitted. “But there, you see? Obviously he decided to jump in the pond for some reason, so he put his clothes inside where they’d stay clean.”

  “Maybe. Water was a little cold for that.”

  Darian recalled a news clip he’d seen of a group of middle-aged men cutting a hole in some ice and lunging into a frigid lake for kicks. “Some people don’t mind that, from what I heard.”

  “That’s true.” Sullivan paused, put the pen down on his notebook, and laced his fingers on top of it. He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice. “No towel, though. You’d kind of expect there to be one if he was just going for a quick morning dip. Don’t you think, Mr. Winter?”

  Darian opened his mouth to reply and then closed it again. He summoned his nerve to stand up and demand to be excused when someone knocked on the door. Cutler stepped inside, much to Sullivan’s obvious displeasure.

  “Sheriff, the headmistress is outside. She wants to see you now. As in A.S.A.P.”

  “Ah. Dr. Jeanette Wexler, is it?” Sullivan rolled his eyes and sighed. So he was as disrespectful of academics as he was of two same-sex parents. What a charmer this guy was.

  “Yes, sir,” said Cutler.

  “Okay. Send her in.” Sullivan motioned to Darian, who lurched to his feet with relief. “You can go. I’ll be in touch.”

  Darian forced himself not to hurry as he left the room. Sullivan’s eyes seemed to bore into his back as he left.

  Chapter 3

  Later that morning, Birchwood’s headmistress, Dr. Jeanette Wexler, called the entire school to a mandatory assembly. Now back in his work clothes, namely a brown suit and tie, Darian trudged to the auditorium alongside Aaron, Everett, and Patricia.

  “Quite a Friday this is turning out to be,” Everett griped as he settled into an upholstered seat beside Darian and commandeered both arms for himself. Patricia squeezed into the row behind them.

  “On the bright side, I was supposed to collect a batch of essays today. Looks like I won’t have to spend the weekend correcting them after all.”

  And he wouldn’t have to correct Timothy’s at all, Darian reflected.

  “I wonder why they herded us all in here.” Aaron’s eyes seemed hollow and a film of perspiration clung to his forehead, as though he were coming down with the flu. “I mean, what’s the point? Everyone must know by now what happened.”

  “The school has to make some sort of formal announcement,” Everett told him. “Maybe there’s some kind of legal requirement to offer people therapy and the like.”

  “Not to mention the fact that an official statement prevents gossip from spreading,” Patricia added over Darian’s shoulder.

  Had they done the same thing twenty years ago, the last time this happened? Darian wanted to ask, but didn’t because Everett had turned in his seat to address Patricia.

  He gave a little sniff. “Good luck with that. People are going to talk no matter what Jeanette has to say. If it’s not what they want to hear, they’ll just accuse her of engineering a cover-up.”

  Sure enough, when the head mistress did step onto the stage and take her place at the podium, her speech proceeded just as Everett predicted. She issued a basic recitation of facts as she knew them, saying that Timothy Pryor had met an unfortunate end earlier that morning. All classes and after-school activities were canceled for the day, but the school counseling center stood fully staffed and ready to assist anyone who needed help processing such terrible news. Until further notice, the pond and surrounding wooded areas would be off-limits to everyone except law enforcement personnel.

  While she spoke, Darian scanned the rows of students at the front of the auditorium. He could only see the backs of their heads, but some of them were hunched over in positions suggesting distress. Others stared straight ahead, stoic and motionless. A few leaned together, whispering.

  He also noticed a familiar figure waiting at the edge of the stage. Like Darian himself, Argo Sullivan had changed into a makeshift suit: plain white shirt, red knit tie, and brown corduroy blazer with leather patches at the elbows. He’d swapped out the jeans for a pair of blue chino slacks, but still wore his mud-flecked boots. Clearly the sheriff wasn’t in the habit of dressing up too often.

  He wasn’t used to speaking in front of an audience, either. When Jeanette called him onstage, he kept his shoulders rigid and leaned too close to the microphone. Nonetheless, Darian found his attention riveted on Sullivan and the drama unfolding around him. The whole situation had come to take on the surreal quality of a nightmare—or at least a cop show on TV, complete with himself as, apparently, some kind of suspect.

  “I want to thank Dr. Wexler for inviting me up here to say a few words,” he said in a voice more confident than his hunched posture suggested he felt. “Obviously I can’t reveal everything that’s going on in the investigation at this time. But I encourage anyone who has any information at all about Timothy Pryor’s movements since yesterd
ay afternoon, or any insight into his state of mind in the hours before his death, to come forward right away. Police deputies will be stationed around the school for the remainder of the day to ensure everyone’s safety and to gather evidence. Please approach anyone in uniform if you have something you think I should know. Any detail, no matter how small, could theoretically be of use to us. Thanks for your cooperation.”

  Next to speak was the school chaplain, who offered a few words of consolation and reminded anyone who needed psychological or spiritual assistance, or some combination of the two, to seek help. His office stood by, ready and willing to talk. Finally, Jeanette returned to the podium, offered condolences to Timothy’s friends and teachers, and dismissed them for the day.

  “You heard her,” said Everett when everyone rose. “No classes today so we can process the whole scandalous affair. May I suggest the usual sus—er, everyone—go into town and have lunch together? We can speak more freely away from campus.”

  “I’ll call Jake and reserve a large table for everyone.” Patricia said, taking her cell phone out of her purse. “He won’t mind. Maybe I can get us a group discount.”

  “Excellent,” Everett said. “Coming, Aaron? You look like you could use a good meal.”

  “Er – yes,” Aaron said uncertainly. “Thank you.” He gave Darian a nervous glance before all three of them shuffled into the aisle and followed Patricia from the auditorium. As they made their way toward the faculty parking lot, Everett called out to a man walking near them. He was of medium build, in early middle age, with short brown hair, a goatee, and an expensive argyle sweater over a light blue shirt and gray tie. Dark slacks and a pair of shiny tasseled loafers completed the effect.

  “Ah, Quin. I had no idea you’d been roped into this dog and pony show, too.”

  “Representing the trustees,” Quin said with a grimace. “At least I’ll be ready to say I know nothing when the phone calls start pouring in this afternoon.”

  Everett swept a hand between Darian and the newcomer. “Darian, this is Quin Fisher. He’s a writer. Historical nonfiction. Maybe you’ve heard about his new book on the Battle of Hastings. Quite a page turner, they say.”