The Main Line Is Murder

by Donna Huston Murray

  I focused on the image of Randy Webb being led to the squad car in handcuffs. I reminded myself of the many absent students at Bryn Derwyn and of Richard Wharton sprawled across the Community Room table. By the time the caffeine kicked in my nervous system was at least equal to Clint Eastwood and probably equal to Kelly the Hairdresser.

  "Now what's this all about?" Emily greeted me bluntly. Her head was swathed in a white towel with pungent fumes escaping around the edges. Between the drape and the towel, her face seemed to float in midair like a Disney-World hologram.

  The customer beside her leaned forward the better to hear my answer. Similarly draped and wrapped, her face resembled a friendly, eager Pekinese.

  "It's really rather private," I murmured to Emily.

  "No it's not," she disagreed. "Everybody knows I think Jeremy is a drunken son of a bitch."

  A hand with four gold-and-diamond rings emerged from the Pekinese's drape and squeezed Emily's arm, or what was probably her arm. "Oh, sweetie. I had one of those, too. My second, may he rest in Hades."

  Emily shrugged off the ringed fingers.

  This wasn't going well, but what choice did I have except to proceed? "Would you say Jeremy is well-balanced? By that I mean when he's distraught, would he be inclined to take action or just...just talk?"

  Emily scowled thoughtfully at me. When it became clear that she had no intention of answering my question, I asked another. "Was he very handy around the house?"

  "Not really."

  "Oh, honey, you can be glad for that. My first fancied himself a handyman, and it cost me a fortune in repair bills."

  Simultaneously, Emily and I gave the eavesdropper a do-you-mind? stare. Pouting, she reached a claw out from under to grab her purse off the counter, stood up, and shouted, "Diane, dear. I'm coming out there ready or not."

  After Emily and I watched her go, I said, "Naturally you're aware of the problem Jeremy had with Richard Wharton..."

  "Who?"

  I sat on the edge of the departed woman’s chair. "Richard Wharton. The school's attorney. He was murdered last Friday."

  "At the school. Of course. I just didn't remember the name."

  "Do you mean you forgot the name? Or do you mean you never heard of him before?"

  "I suppose I read it in the paper; but since I was unfamiliar with the man, I ignored his name."

  "Oh." I had to reorganize my thoughts. "So you didn't know about Jeremy's problem with him."

  Emily was growing a little testy. "No I didn't. What problem?"

  My cheeks had grown warm. I had not expected to have to explain. "When he was...was contemplating getting a divorce...Jeremy spoke with Richard Wharton...and...and..."

  "And what?"

  "And told him all about your marriage."

  Emily surprised me with a bark of laughter. "And you think Jeremy killed him over that! Ha!" She exercised her imagination some more before adding a few more ha's.

  I inhaled a deep breath of permanent-wave solution, coughed, and finally asked, "So how about that first question?"

  Emily sobered. "What question was that?"

  "Is Jeremy all talk, or does he sometimes act?"

  "Act like what?"

  "In your opinion, is your ex-husband capable of violence?"

  The older woman fixed me in her gypsy stare while a white kitchen timer ticked away the silence.

  "Jeremy Philbin wouldn't hurt a fly," she admitted. A slightly peeved expression crossed Emily's face when she said that, as if she regretted that her ex-husband was incapable of such behavior.

  Was she actually sorry that Jeremy was incapable of murder? To my knowledge, Richard Wharton had done nothing to her.

  Then, much to my own regret, I remembered Joanne's story about Emily's reputed sexual preferences, which, if Jeremy was to be believed, ran toward domination and who knew what else. Until that moment I thought Joanne had exaggerated.

  Stomach churning, I thanked Emily Walker and got myself out of there.

  Chapter 17

  TRYING TO FORGET Emily Walker's sexual preferences—and believe me, I was trying to forget—I realized that Philbin's ex-wife had given me some useful information. But did it apply to Richard Wharton's murder? Who knew? Could a man who was disinclined to work with his hands make an exception and put water in the gas tank of a school bus? Sure, why not? Would a man whose wife made him feel less than masculine in the bedroom go to violent extremes to prove himself? Tough call. I decided to let my speculations simmer overnight.

  Meanwhile, cooking dinner was next—anything but eggplant, considering that Dolores "Didi" Martin would be joining us. My own appetite was non-existent, but I didn't want the others to suffer; therefore, I prepared a pot roast with carrots and potatoes, even threw together a cherry pie.

  My visit with Annie Webb had reminded me how much I valued my oldest friend. More than just our long history, we knew every one of our similarities and differences. Maybe I happened to be physically braver, formerly with sports and now with my ladder-climbing, nail-hammering activities; but Didi much more easily risked her feelings. If I was behaving like a jerk, a glance from her told me so—and vice versa. If she needed grounding after a romantic disaster, she came over to play with my kids. Just knowing she would be there for dinner, I felt more like myself than I had in days.

  She arrived just after I set the pie on a cooling rack. She hugged me hello, then shed her fringed shawl overcoat onto a living room chair. Underneath she wore a silk gym suit in pastel blues and greens with a matching blue turtleneck. Today her blonde hair formed a variegated French braid down the back of her head. I assumed the getup was chosen for dancing with kids who still expected her to look grown up. Didi thought of those things.

  "Frozen crust, canned filling?" she asked as she sniffed the pie.

  "Of course," I replied, and my best friend nodded her approval. We had discussed this before. Maybe we were what we ate, but Didi and I agreed that life was not conducted inside a kitchen. Not if we could help it.

  "How's it going?" she asked as she hitched her bottom onto our blah tan counter-top. Behind her the square kitchen sported equally blah blond cabinets with stainless-steel handles. Their interior design could efficiently accommodate anything from auto parts to shoes and socks.

  The refrigerator shuddered to a stop, but the music videos on TV were loud enough to protect Chelsea and Garry from my answer. "Awful, thank you."

  "That's what I figured. The rehearsal wasn't normal."

  "How so?"

  "The kids threw themselves into learning the songs and dances as if they were desperate to be kids."

  "That's not normal?" Didi's selections would be nothing if not fun, no pious eyes to the skies for her.

  "What would you say?"

  I summoned up a picture of the concert rehearsal just before Nora quit. Despite my preoccupation with Rip's anger, I realized the kids had tried to be mature–for the audience, or for Nora, or maybe just for themselves. That was one of the reasons the non-singers stood out; they spoke volumes about discrimination just by keeping their mouths shut.

  "Not normal," I agreed. "Although it could be the new songs. What are they?"

  "Ordinary stuff, although I do have ten boys doing the 'Skater's Waltz,'"

  "Boys? In seven days? That I have to see."

  "There is a small logistics problem."

  I imagined boys cavorting every which way like bumper cars.

  Didi tossed a hand. "It'll work out," she decided. "Your turn."

  While we set the dining room table, I told her about Randy's arrest and what that probably meant to the school. Then I described my conversations with Susan Kelly and Emily Walker, formerly Philbin. Naturally, I stressed Jeremy's incriminating behavior, but I also mentioned Kevin Seitz's grudge against Richard Wharton regarding his father's suicide.

  While I sliced the roast, Didi nibbled pinches off a dry roll.

  "So?" I prompted. "What do you think?"

  "I think y
ou better not tell Rip what you're up to."

  My arm flew up so fast that meat juice from the knife splashed the ceiling.

  "Put that down," Didi said, referring to the knife. "And close your mouth. I merely said..."

  "I know what you said, and I assumed it was understood. Rip has no idea what I'm doing."

  "Good."

  "Not good. Not good at all, but necessary."

  "Of course."

  I rolled my shoulders and tried some normal breathing. I even picked up the knife and went back to work on the roast while Didi brought in a chair to stand on and wiped my ceiling.

  If anyone knew anything about the male psyche, it should have been her. To Didi, dating was a science, men the curriculum of a lifetime. Her errors in judgment only served to rededicate her to her studies. Yet it was those errors in judgment that usually prompted me to state the obvious to her; such as, "Don't tell Rip anything." For her to reach that conclusion by herself shocked me and underscored just how delicate my situation was. Bryn Derwyn was Rip's domain. I'd better not forget it.

  Our "understanding" made for a very stilted dinner. Didi behaved like the perfect guest, avoiding controversial topics, letting others speak. When she complimented the pot roast, I glared at her.

  She rolled her eyes and addressed Chelsea. "What's up, kid? You look glum."

  Chelsea gave Didi her now-that-you-asked stare and related her complaint about a discrepancy on her latest English test. "I had the essay right," she groused. "Ms. Hoffman really has it in for me. I bet it's because of the murder."

  Rip and I simultaneously exclaimed, "What!" and "No way," while Didi nodded noncommittally and continued to chew her food. She had become the perfect guest again, vanishing at the first sign of friction like the Cheshire cat. Also, something about this new topic bothered Garry, but I could not guess what.

  Rip gave me a chin signal, indicating that he was off duty and I should handle our daughter.

  "Chelsea," I opened. "What's happening at Bryn Derwyn can’t possibly have anything to do with whether you got an answer right on an English test. Ms. Hoffman is an adult. She's much too mature to think that way."

  "But you always say that teachers are people. And people aren't always fair. Other kids look at me funny now and then, too, and I know it's because they're wondering what's going on at Bryn Derwyn. Why couldn't a teacher be wondering the same thing?"

  I set down my coffee mug. "Maybe kids are curious about our problems, maybe they're even a little excited by what they've heard, kind of the way people are fascinated by some sensational movies. But if you think you got marked down on a test because of all this, you're crazy."

  Chelsea stared at a forkful of meat, then stared at me. "I got the answer right," she insisted. "So why did Ms. Hoffman mark me wrong?"

  I curbed the temptation to joke our daughter into a better mood; this was a real dilemma to her. It deserved a real answer. "Perhaps Ms. Hoffman made a mistake. Or maybe you don't understand how the answer was incorrect. Either way, you've got two choices. Go to Ms. Hoffman and ask her to explain what was wrong with your answer..."

  "Nothing was wrong with my answer."

  "And if nothing was wrong, she'll have a chance to see that for herself and fix your grade—or else she'll explain what she really was after."

  "But..."

  "But if you go to her all angry and confrontational, she'll get angry and confrontational, and the odds are you'd get no satisfaction whatsoever. Which brings me to your other choice. Let it alone and figure it evens out with all the times you got marked right when you didn't have a clue."

  "Yeah, sure."

  "Up to you."

  Didi's thoughts still appeared to be elsewhere. Rip was smiling around a mouthful of carrot, but his eyes were weary. When they rested on Garry's lowered head, he asked, "How about you, Gar? The kids at school giving you any trouble?"

  A shrug.

  Rip looked at me with the sorrow of the ages. Children shouldn't have to pay for their parents’ problems, but they do. All our lives; sometimes all their lives.

  Rip put a hand on Garry's shoulder. "I'm sorry, son." Both Rip and I were imagining jeers and jokes and possibly even threats. Nasty stuff. Honest stuff. Fear manifesting itself, separating itself from the source. "Truly sorry. Is there anything we can do to help?"

  Garry shook his head. His face was wet with tears. At his age parental intervention was verboten, unless he wanted the jeers and jokes to escalate.

  My chest had developed an ache. My throat was stiff with emotion. Speaking would have been difficult, eating impossible.

  So naturally I jumped when Didi blurted, "I've got it."

  The rest of us stared at her. "The ‘Skater's Waltz.’ I figured it out." She seemed surprised that she had to explain. Recovering quickly, she addressed Chelsea and Garry. "Tomorrow when the bus drops you guys off, can you come right over and help with rehearsal?" The kids shrugged their halfhearted assent.

  "Perfect," Didi proclaimed. "Knew I could count on you guys. You're the greatest." Then she pinched their cheeks like an old aunt and began to clear dishes. When that was finished, she herded the kids back into the living room.

  Alone in the kitchen, Rip and I faced each other in silence. On the counter beside us the newspaper headline shouted "Development Director Arrested for Murder" at anyone with a subscription. The network news would take care of everybody else.

  "Tomorrow should be a real winner," Rip remarked.

  Chapter 18

  WEDNESDAY MORNING gave off a pale winter glare. The trees held still beneath a white sky, and I couldn't guess whether we would be in for sunshine or rain.

  After seeing off the kids and cleaning up breakfast, I dressed in something neat and comfortable for my day stuffing envelopes in the development office.

  About nine, when the busy-ness of morning assembly was over and classes had begun, I walked over to Bryn Derwyn through what had broken into a cold, thin sunshine. Rip interrupted his work with Joanne to get me started on the mailing.

  "Why does it seem so quiet?" I remarked as we strolled down the hall. Usually you could hear the squeak of sneakers on waxed flooring, basketballs bouncing in the gym around the corner, teachers’ voices drifting through open doors, footsteps other than your own.

  Rip stiffened painfully. "Attendance is down."

  "To what?" I blurted.

  "Half." His eyes flicked toward mine.

  No response would have eased Rip's worry or his disappointment, so I made none, just grabbed his hand and squeezed. Taking solace in everyday details seemed to be the only way to endure.

  Rip unlocked Randy's door and ushered me inside. Clearly, Bryn Derwyn's development director had been interrupted in the midst of a busy day.

  Rip waved his hand across the clutter at two boxes of labeled envelopes, each holding 500. He knocked three inserts with his knuckles and reminded me of the fourth in the box on the floor of the Community Room. Noticing the distaste on my face, he offered to go get them. When he returned, he pointed to the alphabetical pile of computer-personalized letters and suggested that I hand write, "Your help will be greatly appreciated," under Randy's forged name.

  I asked whether Rip had heard anything about Randy.

  My husband shook his head. "He's not saying a word."

  Left alone with the mountainous, boring chore, I decided to do what everybody else does when they work in an office. I went for coffee. Not hazelnut-flavored and certainly not the pot in the Community Room. Joanne's.

  I found her putting memos into the teachers’ mail slots in the utilitarian inner room next to the offices.

  "Morning, Hank," I said.

  Her chin had been tilted up for reading names through her bifocals. Now she leveled it at me.

  "What's good about it?"

  "I didn't say it was 'good.' I merely said it was 'morning.'"

  She capitulated. "You're right. No point in grousing. I'm just sick of smoothing feathers. Bunch of ninn
ies."

  "The kids?"

  "The parents. You'd think we harbored Jack the Ripper if you listened to them. And the attorneys. The attorneys are the worst. They all want to give Rip advice—all want to replace Richard Wharton more likely—and poor Rip has to placate every last one the best he can. It's no wonder we're out of aspirin."

  I stirred sugar into my borrowed mug while Joanne stuffed a few more mail slots.

  "Joanne," I began carefully. "The reception desk has a good view of the front circle. You notice anything unusual Friday afternoon? People, cars? Anything?"

  "As if I haven't asked myself the same question a thousand times. No unusual people. Newkirk covered that one, believe me."

  "Cars?"

  "He asked that, too. None that stood out. None I haven't seen fifty times before.

  I wished her luck with the phones and returned to my boring chore. "Your help will be greatly appreciated," I wrote over and over until I could stand it no longer and finally picked up the phone.

  Whoever answered for Longmeier Construction was genial and, best of all, trusting. I told her I was from Bryn Derwyn and asked where I might find Mr. Longmeier.

  "He calls in regularly," she offered. "I can ask him to phone you."

  "Thanks, but there's a question about a change Mr. Barnes needs answered right away," I lied. "He wants me to take the blueprints over to Mr. Longmeier this morning." Just the annoying sort of thing a semi-large client might do. Apparently his assistant agreed; she told me exactly how to find her boss.

  Comprising the corner of a busy intersection, a huge white sign proclaimed a flattened lot to be the future location of a bank. Facing corners contained a gas station, a five-store strip mall, and a veterinarian's office inside a former white clapboard house. What had once been yard was now asphalt, edged with weeds.