"Oh yes. You'd hear from us if we hadn't."
I thanked her for her trouble, hung up, and stared at the back of Randy's door. As far as I knew, there was no Bryn Derwyn, Incorporated. Private schools were considered non-profit organizations, so the "incorporated" part was just plain peculiar.
Ask Rip? The same reservations I had about confessing my other curiosity-satisfying excursions to my husband applied here, double. Even if he forgave me for interfering with his business, he would never approve of me breathing down the neck of a murderer. I admit I'd pitch a fit if he told me that was what he was doing.
However, this particular suspect happened to be in jail. What harm could it do to follow up on this one little oddity? For the next ten minutes I searched Randy's office looking for the letterhead and envelopes. No luck.
I decided to take a calculated risk and show the invoice to Kevin.
"You know anything about this?"
He studied the page for half a second. "We never deal with Audubon. Must be somebody's personal order." His attention returned to a spreadsheet printout he had been reading, all traces of his depression suppressed by the task at hand. Kevin would be all right, assuming that Bryn Derwyn survived.
Back in Randy's office I punched the automatic dial number marked "Anne" to phone his home. Answering machine—I should have expected that. Reporters were probably ushering Randy Webb's wife to a deeper level of hell.
Trying to sound natural, I left my message. "Annie, this is Gin Barnes. I'm doing a little of Randy's work and I have a question you might be able to answer. If you get home before three, will you please call me in his office? Thanks."
I'd stuffed about four envelopes before the phone rang.
"Gin, it's Annie." Her voice sounded old, as if she were speaking through a washcloth.
"Are you all right?" I asked. "Is there anything I can do?"
"No. No, you're already doing it. It's nice of you to help with Randy's work. I'm sure he'll appreciate it." Her voice broke when she said her husband's name, and I realized I needed to help her hold it together for her own sake as well as mine.
"Listen," I began as if asking something quite mundane. "I've been looking for some letterhead for a mailing, and I wondered if there's any chance Randy has it at home. A small box that says, 'Bryn Derwyn, Inc.' Have you seen anything like that around?"
"Why, yes, now that you mention it. I know just where it is. I noticed it in the hall closet the other day."
"Great. That's great. Would you mind terribly if I stopped over and picked it up?"
"No, of course not." She gave me directions to their home.
Randy and Annie Webb and their two children happened to live in nearby Paoli, Pennsylvania, which no doubt would be a reasonable distance from the Paoli post office, the post office where any replies addressed to Bryn Derwyn, Inc. would naturally go.
I tried. I really tried, but I could not think of one good reason why that post office box should be necessary. Bad reasons, yes. Incriminating reasons, certainly.
Legitimate reasons—no.
Chapter 21
SHORTLY AFTER TWO I pulled into a parking space near the Webbs’ Paoli residence. It was an older home, a conglomerate consisting of stone foundation, white clapboard siding rising to the second story, and scalloped white shingles thereafter. A broad porch supported by thick wooden posts was crowned by an old tin roof painted green. The steeply pitched upper roof seemed to be slate, mildewed where an enormous maple tree shaded it in summer. Even now, the second week in December, tan leaves ground into crumbs littered the uneven cement sidewalk.
I crossed the porch and knocked. A skeptical black-and-white cat watched me from a front window sill.
"Oh, Ginger," Randy Webb's wife greeted me with ravaged eyes. The smell of home-baked bread wafted through the opened door.
My slight confusion must have prompted her to explain. "Randy loves my fresh bread. I'm baking some for when he gets home."
"Have you heard something?" I asked hopefully.
Annie took a ragged breath as she closed the door after me. “His lawyer said something about a Grand Jury hearing Friday afternoon."
So he must have been formally charged. The Grand Jury hearing would determine whether there was enough evidence to indict. If he was held over for trial, Randy's problems would begin in earnest.
Rather than salt Annie’s wounds with more questions, I said her bread smelled absolutely wonderful. “What kind are you making?"
"Potato rolls. I tie them in knots and glaze them with egg. You want one?"
"You bet."
She led me down the hall, which ran along the left length of the house. Two tall windows viewing the side yard and two more viewing the back made the old-fashioned kitchen sunny and inviting.
I peeked through red-checked cafe curtains to the back. A swing set and a sandbox took up the only flat expanse behind the house in a yard that was perhaps double the square footage of the building but no more. Tangled honeysuckle covered the chain-link fencing between the Webbs and their neighbors to the right. A mess of azalea and forsythia bushes edged the other two boundaries.
The impression was a house of comfort rather than pride, the home of a young family whose priorities were childproof furniture, clean clothes, and fresh bread rather than a showy decor to impress visitors.
"Kids asleep?" I asked as we settled across from each other at the Formica kitchen table. The vinyl-and-chrome chairs could have been considered Art Deco except for the duct tape somebody used to mend one of the seats.
Annie nodded and her eyes smiled, a maternal reflex prompted by the thought of her boys. Their ages were about one and three as I remembered, confirmed by the Palomino hobby horse on springs stabled in a corner. Beside it an open wooden crate overflowed with plastic blocks, action figures, a cowboy hat, and one of Randy's running shoes.
The floor seemed to be that imitation brick stuff that comes on a roll. The tall cabinets had honest-to-God windowpanes set into actual wood molding. They housed a set of Pfaltzgraff stoneware dishes, the gray-and-blue pattern. The oven, behind me on the right side of the room, was the newest item there, a nice modern GE with a black glass door. The aroma of the rolls was overwhelming.
"Coffee?" Annie offered. Just the distraction of my visit had brightened her eyes, making me wish I could do more.
"Mmmm," I agreed. "Milk and sugar, I'm afraid."
"Not for me," she remarked. "Couldn't lose that baby fat after Eric was born. Guess I never will." She hurried to fill two mugs and doctor mine to order.
I could have told her she looked great, but she'd have known better. The black bags under her eyes spoke of little or no sleep last night. Her hair was a dull brown mass brushed into a rubber band and forgotten, and she wore one of Randy's striped oxford shirts with her jeans and sneakers.
"Know what you mean," I remarked, alluding to my own minor, yet chronic weight dissatisfaction. "But think of it this way: we wouldn't be American women if we weren't on a diet. Pass me one of those rolls, will you?"
She laughed, a sound that surprised her, so she laughed some more. She passed me a napkin and two still-warm potato rolls from the cooling rack on the counter behind her. I ripped into one as if I hadn't eaten anything all day. Annie just held hers and watched me eat. Eventually, she looked hers in the eye, sighed and joined the feast.
"Comfort food," I told her. "Don't feel guilty. You need it."
Her head dropped to her hand and quite suddenly tears dripped to the table. She cried silently, like a woman cries at night when she doesn't want her husband to hear. It can be done, but it takes practice—so I'm told. Didi told me she learned how during her brief marriage.
"You want to tell me about it?" I asked.
She shook her head no.
We ate in silence for a while, sipping the best coffee I'd tasted in years. I would have complimented that, except it might have been another skill Annie had cultivated for Randy, and Randy was currently a
sensitive subject.
"He's really a good husband," his wife told me at last. "This whole mess is...unimaginable."
"I'm sure it's a nightmare for you,” I sympathized, “and if it's any consolation, I don't think he did it." Other people did have more apparent motives.
"Thank you." Annie wiped her face with Randy's shirt cuff, and we endured an awkward silence.
My heart ached to see her internal struggle. She was trapped by her love for Randy, trapped by the age of her children, desperate to believe she had chosen well.
"He bought the boys a sled for Christmas," she addressed both me and the wall. "If we don't get enough snow here, he said we'll drive up to the Poconos some weekend so they can use it." Her gaze strayed out through the window to the back yard and beyond, possibly all the way to the mountains.
“Sounds like he’s a really good father.”
"Oh yes. The boys adore him." Then her eyes dropped again as if the word "adore" applied to others as well. Rivals, real or imagined.
I squirmed in my chair, remembering Tina Longmeier flirting with both Richard Wharton and Randy the day I happened to be looking out my front window.
While I finished my rolls and coffee I thought about how different Annie was from my friend, Didi. At age five Didi had denounced Cinderella as a “drip.” Later, she refused to stay in a marriage that prevented her from sampling a different flavor of life every day. She was fanatical about her appearance because it advertised her individuality. If Annie’s marriage ever failed, I would be sure to introduce her to my best friend.
The oven timer buzzed, and Annie bustled over to save another batch of rolls from burning. I waited as she scooped each one off the pan with a plastic spatula, then I reminded her that I needed to get back to school. “Did you say you knew where that letterhead was?"
"Oh yes. Just a second." She put the pan and spatula in the sink and proceeded to the doorway.
Then she turned back and asked, "Do you need the checkbook, too?"
Chapter 22
AT THE MENTION of a checkbook, my heart somersaulted. I took a big breath to disguise my shock, and said, "Yes, I guess I do at that." Then I smiled, a weak smile, but sufficient under the circumstances.
While Randy Webb's wife proceeded upstairs to collect what might be incriminating evidence against her husband, I wandered into their living room to wait. Predictably childproof, the furniture included an indestructible tweed sofa with hardwood arms and legs, a matching recliner, and another basket of toys.
A white telephone was ajar on an end table, and I almost replaced the receiver until I realized the significance—Annie had given up on their answering machine and opted for complete silence. The signal telling her the phone was off the hook had already ceased.
Again my heart ached for this woman. Tears welled up in my eyes while self-doubt whispered in my ear. Maybe I should be playing Cinderella instead of Joan of Arc. Maybe I should learn how to bake bread and brew coffee.
The sentiment took less time to expire than the alarm beep on the phone. I was the Rosie the Riveter-type, like it or lump it, and deep down I knew I wouldn't change even if I could.
Annie's return caught me dabbing at my eyes with a tissue. She blinked with puzzlement before she was able to look past her own problem to see mine. "Things rough at school?" she guessed.
I nodded. "It'll work out," I told her lamely.
"One way or the other," she finished with a laugh I had to share. The boxes of envelopes and letterhead were in the way, but we shared an awkward hug.
"Let's do lunch sometime," I blurted.
Annie laughed at the obvious social kiss-off, just as I hoped she would. Then I told her I meant it, and her eyes widened.
"Sure," she said. "I'd like that."
As I struggled with the door and the boxes, she slapped a narrow black checkbook on top of the pile. "Don't forget this."
She held the door for me, friendliness warming her eyes.
Alone in the car I examined the items Annie had given me more closely.
The box of envelopes appeared to be full. One taped end of the paper-wrapped letterhead had been opened, either to check the quality of the printing or to use a sheet or two of the paper. Not very helpful.
The checkbook revealed just as little. It was the usual black plastic folder, personal size, not the taller book-type provided for some business accounts. The checks were ordinary blue beginning with number 100, and the account ledger didn't even show an opening balance. If Randy had some underhanded scheme in mind, maybe he had not yet implemented it.
A tiny optimism stepped forward for consideration but hastily withdrew. Even if the "incorporated" on the letterhead had been some sort of error, nothing honest explained away the checkbook. Whether or not Randy had carried out his intentions did not matter.
Saddened on Annie's behalf, I drove to the Paoli branch of the bank named on the checks. Only a few cars remained in the parking lot that spanned the front of the brick building. Evergreens lined up across the narrow front garden softened the bank's austere appearance, lending the warm this-isn't-really-a-business impression that Main Liners insist upon. Last summer one of the prettiest flower gardens along Lancaster Avenue beautified a car wash.
Only forty-five minutes remained before the bank would close, and already the pace had slowed. I was received with weary patience by a middle-aged woman with blunt cut reddish-brown hair, half-glasses, and a suit that couldn't decide whether to be pale purple or outright gray. Judging by the pink silk blouse the woman had chosen, matching anything to that suit color was a bitch.
"Good afternoon," she said. Her nameplate proclaimed that she was Diane Peale.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Peale," I agreed. "I hope you can help me."
"I'll try."
I sat in one of the two round swivel chairs in front of her desk. "This is a little awkward," I began.
An eyebrow rose slightly, but Ms. Peale remained patient.
"I'm from Bryn Derwyn Academy?" I used the questioning tone to see whether the eyebrow lifted any higher. It did, but only a twitch's worth.
"Yes?"
I passed the checkbook across the desk. The woman flipped it open but gave away nothing.
"Was this account opened here?" I asked.
"Yes." She could probably tell that by the account number.
"Well, the problem is I think only one person can sign the checks, and that person is...unavailable at this time. So the school can't use the account."
At last, Ms. Peale, reacted. So she had read a paper or listened to the news. Back straightened, she rapidly typed instructions into her computer. The screen, naturally, was turned her way and not mine.
Diane Peale peered through the half glasses and scowled. "I see," she said.
"See what?"
"Your problem."
"Can you solve it?"
"No, but you can."
"Beg pardon?"
She rummaged in the file drawer at her knee, extracted a few forms and handed them to me. "Get your Board to formally request a change—that's this form—then get the secretary to sign this, and finally, fill this out." She tapped a new signature card with a pen.
"I suggest that you authorize two people to sign this time instead of only one. That way if one person is temporarily...incapacitated...your corporation can still conduct business. Okay?"
"Okay. There's just one more thing," I said, fearful that I would be shuffled out the door without hearing her state the one fact I was there to confirm.
"Yes?"
"Do we need Randy Webb to sign a release or anything?"
"No."
"After we do all this, will he still be able to sign?" I waved the papers at her.
"No."
"But he is the only one who can sign now, isn't he?"
Ms. Peale shifted her bottom on her chair as if she were finally losing patience. Probably an intelligence snob, and she a woman who can match purple/gray with pink.
"
I thought that was why you were here," she said accusingly.
"You're quite right." My smile must have been a little smug. "That was exactly why I was here. Thank you, Ms. Peale. You've been splendid." I extended my hand.
She shook it once, but only with her fingers.
Chapter 23
WHEN I ARRIVED back at Bryn Derwyn, the formality of the school day had slackened down to extracurricular mode. The previously missed staccato of bouncing basketballs resounded into the lobby. Clusters of half-dozing students lounged on the soft furniture waiting for their parents to pick them up. Kindergarten children with late buses followed their teacher toward the rear pickup area like ducklings waddling after their mother.
Also, Garry and Chelsea scurried into sight. Both gaped with surprise to see me.
"Hi," I said. "I'm your mother. Remember?"
"Oh, Mom," Chelsea complained.
"Hi. What are you doing here?" Garry asked. Since I clutched the packages of letterhead and envelopes roughly at his eye level, he automatically stared at them.
"I'm doing a mailing for Dad," I replied. "And you?"
Both children scowled. "We're helping Aunt Didi." Chelsea's tone conveyed an implied, "Don't you remember anything?" that bordered on an accusation of senility.
I shrugged. "I've been busy."
"Too busy to remember us?" Garry seemed incredulous.
I stroked his cheek. "You are never out of my mind. Now and then a detail or two may slip from my consciousness, but you yourself are always right up front."
Chelsea grimaced her distaste for my affectionate honesty. Garry's indifference was probably just indifference. Magazines suggest it all has to do with growing up and leaving the nest.
"See you at dinner," I said as they eased themselves loose.
Their father stepped into the lobby just then and they rushed toward him. Since I didn't want to be questioned about the packages, I wiggled my fingers hello from a distance and pointed my thumb toward the development office.
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