Indeed. I wondered vaguely if Headmaster Perkins would face any charges. Altering grades was probably not illegal, even if you had the damning evidence of a teacher’s grade book. The only crimes I knew of besides Hank’s had been Macguire Perkins’ drug use and Brad Marensky’s thefts. I was hardly going to turn the boys in. Sadly, both teens had merely followed the example, both implicit and explicit, of their purported mentors their parents
“This was over who was first in the class?” a bewildered Denver sergeant had asked me at least six times.
Yep. With Keith Andrews gone, with an A in French and an uncooperative college counselor out of the way, with Julian incapacitated or dead, Greer Dawson would have passed Heather, been at the top of her class and on her way to the Ivy League, to all the things Hank coveted for his daughter and for himself.
But this was not really over who headed the class. It was heartbreakingly about trying to make your child the kind of success you never were yourself. I felt a terrible pity for Greer Dawson. I knew she would never be able to measure up.
“How can you buy grades?” the cop kept asking.
“Same way you buy drugs,” I answered.
“Huh,” Schulz grunted under his breath. “Cynical, Miss G.”
I asked the Denver police officer to phone Elk Park Prep, to alert the headmaster to some strange inquiries he might get from parents who might have been worried by Heather Coopersmith’s calls. How Alfred Perkins would react to this last event in the saga of collegial competition I could not imagine. Nor did I really care.
Now the picture takers were done. Hank Dawson’s corpse was being removed. I did not look. The sergeant said I could go.
Schulz suggested that we exit through the brick walkway between the Tattered Cover and the Janus Building. His car, he told me, was on Second Avenue. He took my hand. His was warm and rough, entirely welcome.
“You were brave,” he said. “Damn.” The memory of Hank Dawson, sprawled bloody and dead on the pavement, made my legs wobble. I stopped and tilted my head back to catch a few icy snowflakes in my mouth. The air was cool, fresh, sharp. Sweet. I drew it deep into my lungs.
“There’s just one thing I never figured out,” I said. We were standing on the pink-lit brick breezeway between the two buildings. Several late-night passersby had been halted by the police activity. I could hear their engines humming; music lilted from a car radio.
“One thing you haven’t figured out,” repeated, Schulz. “Like how to get on with your life.”
“Yes, that…” A breeze chilled my skin, and I shivered. Schulz pulled me into his warm chest.
“What else doesn’t Miss G. understand?”
“I know it sounds petty after all that’s happened, but … the scholarship for Julian. What was Hank hoping to gain from that?”
“Ah, nothing.” Tom Schulz kissed my cheek, then hugged me very gently, as if I were breakable. The tune on the car radio changed: “Moon River.” The bittersweet notes filtered through the snowy air.
I said, “You seem pretty sure of that.”
Schulz sighed. “I’m just so happy to have you and Julian alive “
“Yes, but… is the money gone now, or what? Julian will need to know.”
He let go of me. Snowflakes drifted down onto my face and shoulders.
“The money is not gone,” Schulz said. “It is not gone because I donated it, and I got your friend Marla to go in halvsies with me.”
“What?”
He cupped my hand in his, then said, “Smart detective like Miss G., I should have thought you’d figure that out. I told you I didn’t know what to do with my money. Good for Julian I’m a saver. Without kids of my own, this felt like a great thing to do. Marla likes Julian too, and God knows she has enough money. She said” and here he drew his voice into an astonishingly accurate imitation of Marla’s husky voice ” ‘Oh, oh, I’ll never be able to keep a secret from Goldy!’ And now look at who told.”
“Aah, God…” I said, faltering. I was losing consciousness. My body was falling, falling, to the pavement, and I could feel Schulz’s hands gently easing me down. It was all too much Keith Andrews, Suzanne Ferrell, Hank Dawson.… death everywhere.
“You’re going to need counseling,” Schulz warned. “You’ve been through a lot.” He stroked my cheek.
The pavement was cold. Yes, counseling. I had witnessed too much. After all the death, my own mortality again loomed large. What really kept me going? What was I going to have faith in? I had Arch, Julian. I had … An ache filled me. What else?
Hank Dawson had wanted desperately to have a successful family. So had Audrey. The Marenskys. Headmaster Perkins with hapless Macguire. And so, too, had I. We had all reached out for success or the image of success , we had in our minds. I’d had a picture of John Richard, Arch, and me, a happy family, and that had certainly failed. What had gone so wrong?
This was what was wrong: my idea, Hank’s idea, Caroline’s, Brad’s, Macguire’s … that if you have this educational pedigree, this money, this fill-in-the-blank, you will be successful.
But really, I thought as I lay on the cold pavement and looked up into Schulz’s concerned face, success was something else. Success was more a matter of finding the best people and then going through life with them… it was finding rewarding work and sticking with it, through thick and thin, as if life were a succession of cream sauces… .
Suddenly my head hurt, my stomach hurt, everything hurt. Schulz made patient murmuring noises, then helped me up.
I was shivering. “I’m so embarrassed,” I said without looking at him.
“Aah, forget about it.”
I tilted my head and again tasted a few blessed flakes of snow. Schulz motioned at the sky.
“Too bad Arch won’t be able to look for galaxies tonight.”
“Oh, well. You know how he’s always complaining to me about the clouds obscuring the stars. The way all my troubles have obscured my appreciating you,” I added.
“Listen to this woman. She’s using metaphors like some headmaster I know. And it sounds as if she’s gone soft “
“Tom, there’s something I have to tell you.”
He took my hand and waited. Finally he said, “Go ahead.”
“Yes.
“Yes, what?” said Tom Schulz.
“Yes,” I said, firmly, with no hesitation. “Yes, I will marry you.”
FB2 document info
Document ID: 98f57a9f-7b60-4444-aac5-33f8430119a9
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Document creation date: 30.11.2012
Created using: calibre 0.9.7, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Diane Mott Davidson
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The Cereal Murders gbcm-3 Page 28