The Main Line Is Murder

by Donna Huston Murray

  Claire proceeded onto grandchildren, and my gaze strayed to the elderly man trying to make a twenty-foot putt on the green down below.

  “You look to be in good health,” Claire told me.

  I sipped my house wine and considered the question, an odd one to pose to someone not yet thirty-five. “Yes, so far so good.” When I looked back, the man was putting from the opposite direction.

  “So important. So important. When your health begins to go...”

  Bodourian accepted his salad from the waitress with a nod. “Finished your hiring, have you?”

  “Well, no,” Rip admitted, and I could tell he wanted to add that he’d been on the job less than three weeks. “I’d rather not make any snap decisions.”

  “Fourth grade will be easy. Could have taken care of that myself but thought you’d like one of your own in there.” He flicked a finger, giving the impression that he really hadn’t felt like bothering with that one. “However, the middle school math opening—too bad the fellow I found went elsewhere. Fine young man. Middlebury graduate. You’ll have trouble doing as well.”

  “I’m hoping to get someone who can coach.”

  Bodourian’s left eyebrow arched behind his thick, black-rimmed tri-focals. “Always good to double up like that,” he grudgingly admitted, his narrowed eyes and lifted chin telegraphing his distaste for athletics.

  “I was curious,” Rip began, “why you limited the extracurricular activities. Financial considerations?”

  Bodourian puffed up but wouldn’t meet Rip’s eye.

  “Don’t believe in distractions, old boy. Eye on the ball, to use one of your sports metaphors. Give them the basics and send them off to college prepared to study.” His voice imbued the word “study” with a dramatic intonation, not unlike the emphasis a TV preacher I once heard put on the word “God.”

  My eyes met Rip's briefly. I thought he might launch into his Ph.D. candidate discourse on why well-rounded students are better prepared to face higher education and the world, but our dinners arrived about then, and he must have thought his energy would be better spent addressing his salmon encrusted with horseradish.

  While three of us ate, Claire filled the open air time with the medical saga of her bursitis. Nibbles of stir-fried chicken (she had also skipped the Tuna Dijon) were interspersed with “and then he told me to’s” and “so I told him’s.”

  Perhaps it was the house wine, my underlying desire to be at Chelsea’s party, or the oppressive attitudes of our host and hostess, but I was dying to liven up the meal.

  “Seen any good movies lately?” I asked Bill when Claire paused for a bite.

  “I’m afraid Claire and I don’t go to the cinema nearly as often as we once did. Isn’t that right, Mother?”

  Mother blinked. Her mind had been working out what happened at the next office visit.

  “Too much nudity and sex for us old timers,” the retired headmaster admitted.

  “Awful,” Claire concurred. “Just awful what they call entertainment these days. Children know all about sex way too young, if you ask me.”

  “But they have to...” I began, but Rip caught my eye. Not worth it.

  “That reminds me,” I said instead, “about the day Chelsea’s health class had sex education and, you know, basically got the whole story.”

  I glanced around the table. Rip, who knew where I was going, folded his arms to watch me perform. Claire had leaned forward the better to hear, and Bill squinted at me impatiently. I opted for the short version.

  “Chelsea jumped off the school bus mad as all get out." I raised my voice appropriately. "'I found out what you and Daddy did,' she yelled at me. 'I think it's disgusting. And you didn’t just do it once—you did it twice!’”

  Rip and I leaned back and smiled, amused once again by the old family standby. Claire seemed bewildered. Her husband offered a good-sport chuckle.

  “I don’t know why they have to teach children...” Claire lamented.

  “Now, Mother. We’ve been through this...” Abruptly, he asked me, “Do you care for dessert?”

  I thought the answer was supposed to be no, so that was what I said.

  “Fine. How about coffee? There’s one item I need to mention to your husband before we let you get home to your...delightful...children.”

  I nodded and told the waitress iced decaf.

  “Interesting, your mentioning your fondness for athletics,” Rip’s predecessor began, not at all inconvenienced by what Rip had actually said. The old head was one-hundred-percent authority figure now, the patriarch beyond questioning, and I braced myself to finally hear what was worth the price of our meal.

  “Did your little ones ever get chicken pox?” Claire asked hopefully.

  “Excuse me,” I told her confidentially, “but I’d like to hear what Bill’s saying.”

  “You’ve heard talk about building the school a new gymnasium?” Bodourian questioned Rip.

  “A few people mentioned it during the interviews.”

  “I take it you were for the project?”

  “Sooner or later,” Rip admitted. “The present gym seems adequate for now.”

  “Do you...?” Claire tried again.

  “No, I never have,” I told her apologetically. Her face pinched together as she tried to make sense of my premature answer.

  Bill Bodourian pressed his lips into a pout. “Many of the parents, especially the ones on the Board, don’t have your patience,” he told Rip. “I received quite a bit of pressure to raise funding as soon as possible.”

  “But with such a modest-sized student body...”

  “Yes, I quite agree. In fact I felt a theater would have come first, but many people insist that athletics make or break a school. They certainly offer an outlet for all those teenage hormones.” Bodourian shot me the quickest of smiles as he emphasized the last word, no doubt to prove that he, too, had a sense of humor.

  “How was it left?” Rip prompted.

  The older man took a breath then dove straight in. “Quite on their own, mind you, some of the parents—led by a Board member, of course—approached Michael D’Avanzo. Do you know who he is?”

  “I’ve heard the name.”

  I watched the two men over the top of my iced coffee, afraid to miss a word of their delicate conversation.

  “Lots of contacts I was told. Very 'connected,' I believe was the phrase. Anyway, his grandson, Nicholas, lives with him. D'Avanzo formally adopted him after his parents were killed in a car crash. Nicky's been at Bryn Derwyn for a year now and is coming up on seventh grade. Quite an athlete.”

  When Claire opened her mouth for one last try, I gave her the palm-up stop signal I use on the kids.

  “The parents who approached D’Avanzo were very smart. They argued that a new gym would benefit no one so much as it would young Nick. The upshot of it all was that D’Avanzo agreed to foot half the bill if the school could raise the other half. He would give a certain amount up front to pay for architectural plans, the rest would be matched in installments as Bryn Derwyn proceeded with its fundraising campaign.”

  Rip had become still as low tide. “How much?” he asked.

  “Roughly two million total according to the first drawings.”

  Rip reacted with mild surprise. “So you’ve proceeded that far?”

  “D’Avanzo’s was a very generous offer. No one felt we should turn it down.”

  “Why wasn’t I told right away?” After he had been hired back in February, he had been kept informed about almost everything else.

  Bodourian leaned forward. “This more or less is right away. Negotiations continued up until my last day. I thought you’d be pleased to be out of it; and frankly, a newcomer wouldn’t have been able to bring it off. All in all I think you’ll find you’ve been handed quite a good deal.”

  Rip appeared unconvinced, perhaps because he was being forced to raise a million dollars for a project he didn’t endorse.

  “There’s one co
ndition,” Bodourian continued somewhat sheepishly.

  “Yes?” Rip’s dissatisfaction was totally apparent.

  “D’Avanzo wants us to use his son-in-law as the contractor.”

  Rip tilted his head. “Is that legal?”

  Bodourian's chin rose. “Richard Wharton will see to it that our by-laws are not violated.” He eyed Rip without much regard, like a man who knew he held all the trump. “Richard Wharton was really the key man. In fact I appointed him chairman of the committee in charge of raising the balance.”

  “Who’s Richard Wharton?” I couldn’t resist asking.

  “Lawyer. On the Board,” Rip answered.

  “And if we don’t use the son-in-law? What’s his name?”

  “Longmeier. Longmeier Construction. Reputable firm. On hard times like most of them. Their bid was competitive. Nothing to worry about there.”

  Like hell, Rip’s face said. “Thank you for telling me this, Bill,” Rip said aloud. He glanced at his watch. “Getting late. I’m afraid Gin is throwing a birthday party for our daughter, and we should get back to light the candles. Lovely of you to invite us...” He stood and shook Bodourian’s hand, nodded at our hostess. “Claire.”

  “Goodnight,” Claire cooed. “So nice to have met you.”

  “Good night,” I echoed.

  When I looked back, Dr. William F. Bodourian was signaling for the waitress, probably not for coffee.

  “What was all that about?” I asked as I trotted to catch up with Rip’s lengthy stride.

  He did not respond. Outside the heavy, arched doorway he grabbed his car keys off the valet’s rack, tipped the gawking college kid and strode off.

  “But sir,” the valet called, starting after him.

  I extended my arm to hold the kid back. “Let him go,” I said. “My husband needs the exercise.” Then I smiled and shrugged, because we had both seen the fire in Rip’s eye.

  The country club was several miles behind us before I dared to ask why he was so furious. Despite what "connected" usually meant around Philadelphia, I felt certain Bodourian thought it meant Michael D'Avanzo was heavily into networking. Certainly the reference to organized crime was enough to infuriate Rip, but was that his only problem?

  No, it wasn’t.

  “I should have been informed right away,” he complained. “You don’t saddle a new head with a two-million-dollar project without warning.”

  “You’re worried about raising the money?”

  “It isn’t just that. We do need the gym. I’d have waited to build it until enrollment looked a little better...”

  “Then...what?” I asked.

  “It makes me nervous as hell to have a faction of the Board operating behind my back.”

  “The lawyer, Richard Wharton?”

  “Right. Bodourian should have controlled him. And because he didn’t, I’m worried that I won’t be able to.”

  I finally realized the witnesses and their police escorts gathered in the lobby were looking at me expectantly.

  I stood, and a young officer with a weak chin and glasses nodded and held the door open for me. Then all of us paraded out into the dark cold like a band of silent, somber refugees.

  By the time my police and witness entourage reached our house, I was so concerned about what pasty-faced Newkirk would make of Rip's problems with Richard Wharton that I dropped my keys on my foot.

  Chapter 7

  "MOM," CHELSEA ambushed me the minute I opened the door. "A reporter called. He thought I was you. He said somebody was killed!"

  While I pulled my daughter in for a hug, people jostled into the living room around us, Rip and Newkirk included. Chelsea held fast, like she hadn't clung to me in years.

  Reporters. Inhuman leeches. Very few, of course. But a few too many. My mother-in-law learned that her father's car crash had been fatal when a reporter called to ask, "How old was Mr. Fitzsimmons anyway?" Infuriating to think such callousness exists. Intolerable that my daughter had just been exposed to it.

  "I'll answer the phone from now on," I told her, and she relaxed in my arms. The Barneses’ fortress was once again armed; she could climb down from the wall.

  Garry stood close by his sister, their identical fear heightening their family resemblance. Rip shepherded them both into the dining room for a whispered conversation, which they absorbed with wide eyes and gaping mouths.

  "You got anywhere private?" Newkirk addressed me.

  "Downstairs? No." The kitchen was standing-room-only, the laundry a narrow cubicle leading to the side yard. The dining room offered seating, but opened widely to the crowded living room.

  The phone rang. I gave Newkirk a fiery glance, reached around the corner for the kitchen-wall extension, lifted the receiver, then pressed the plunger to disconnect. Then I dropped the receiver into a drawer and closed it. The phone would squawk for a while, but that would stop. Frying reporters could wait until after the witnesses and police left.

  "I'll see if our bedroom is presentable," I told Newkirk, then left him fending off Barney's attempts to spit polish his shoe.

  Mercifully, the bed was made, and a ninety-second sweep of underwear and used towels took care of the main embarrassments. The ceiling repair still hadn't been repainted, the blue drapes from the old house didn't match the new yellow, white, and green flowered bedspread, and the hunter-green carpet I chose attracted lint the way white blouses attract mustard. However, there was an empty slipper chair and the bed to sit on, and conversations could not be overheard downstairs.

  Newkirk chose to finish with Rip first, which left the kids cowering alone at the far end of the dining room table. I went to them as if the aftermath of a murder was just another curve the Main Line had chosen to throw our way, one that I intended to take in my stride. "You eat anything?" I asked them.

  Chelsea shook her head no, while Garry admitted he’d had some pretzels.

  "I'll fix something," I said, tousling Garry's hair on my way behind them into the kitchen. His neck was stiff and his skin a little cool. "Feed the dog?" I asked.

  "Yeah," he sneered with close to his usual disgust.

  "Get me two packages of English muffins from the laundry room freezer," I suggested.

  "Pul-eeze," he mocked.

  "Please," I added dutifully. Garry was fine. Chelsea's eyes were a little shiny, but if the run-off was between "fear" and "titillation" now, my vote went for the latter. I left her feigning interest in the map of Europe spread under her arms, knowing she was memorizing every word within hearing, every gesture, every expression. She was, after all, my daughter.

  From the kitchen I surveyed the gathering around our naked Christmas tree. We had misjudged its size, and it bit into the social space considerably. With a brick fireplace consuming the shorter far wall and the TV and one chair filling the wall near the kitchen, that left our sofa facing the tree and what little could be seen of the tall, broad front window.

  Presently everyone was staring past the tree out the window. I looked out myself and saw Richard Wharton's body being loaded into the coroner's van. I moved toward the cord that closed the burlap drapes, glanced at the gathering for permission, received one nod from Joanne, and closed the sight off from the grim faces.

  Pamela Washington and Sophia Mawby, two of the teachers from Rip's office, began a quiet conversation on the sofa. Danny Vega, the other, resumed pacing. Joanne sat primly on the chair by the TV, and Kevin Seitz rocked on his feet with his hands in his back pockets glaring at the drapes with x-ray vision. Two uniformed cops leaned against the walls.

  Perhaps the grimmest face belonged to Kevin. His family had lived two doors from mine when he was little, and on Friday nights I often came home from dates to find the adults playing poker and Kevin and his younger brother slumbering softly in my parents' bed. Eventually the boys and their blankets would be slung over our fathers' shoulders and carried down the street to their own bunks.

  After the Seitzes moved, I heard news of their family t
hrough my mother. Until this summer I hadn't spoken to Kevin as an adult except at his father's funeral.

  "Help me make coffee?" I suggested. He needed to expel some energy before his turn with Newkirk. His furtive nervousness made him look guilty as hell.

  "Did you know Richard Wharton?" I asked while I handed him the coffee can and showed him where we kept the pot.

  "Indirectly," he answered. Adrenaline kicked my heart into high gear.

  Garry plunked the frozen muffins on the counter. Kevin and I waited while he escaped. Ten seconds later my son was flopped in front of the TV treating questionees and cops alike to a Seinfeld re-run.

  "What do you mean, 'indirectly'?"–I prompted Kevin, softly so no one heard over the television laughter.

  Kevin counted scoops. Then he turned his college-boy face toward me and admitted, "Wharton helped my father fight the lawsuit." The one in which an employee sued over a scratch from a rusty nail and won.

  "Oh," I said heavily. My mother had delivered that story and the rest of the saga in installments, the final episode with tears smeared down her face. While Arlen Seitz bluffed his family and friends, his building-supply business dwindled with the recession until it reached a critical low. Kevin, not long out of Tulane, gave up an impressive corporate job to apply his M.B.A. where he thought it would do the most good—helping with the family business. He pruned and regrouped and refinanced but it was too little too late. His father filed for bankruptcy. That night Arlen Seitz waited for his wife to fall asleep, slipped back to his warehouse, sat down in a pile of sawdust, and fired a bullet into his brain. Kevin's mother told mine that Arlen blamed excessive attorney fees for the beginning of the end.

  "You blame Wharton?" I asked Kevin. I had been thawing batches of muffins in the microwave, but I paused to hear his reply. In the muted kitchen light he looked almost childlike again. His straight honey-blond hair fell over one eyebrow, his moonstone-blue eyes blinked with fatigue, even his wrinkled white collar was partly in and partly out of his patterned sweater. I wanted to brush his hair into place, tidy his collar, and smooth away the worry lines on his brow; but the whim passed. I was just me and nobody's fairy godmother.