The Main Line Is Murder

by Donna Huston Murray

  After releasing my arm, he strode past his desk until he faced a painting of Venice, possibly depicting the Bridge of Sighs.

  "What do you mean by this, this accusation?" he asked.

  "Just what I said."

  Eyes closed, head back, his right hand jumped off the credenza beneath it like a pianist playing chords in staccato. To address me he spoke over his right shoulder.

  "You have proof of this?"

  "Yes and no." I was still just inside the door, my coat drooping on my shoulders, my purse dangling from my fist to the floor.

  D’Avanzo whirled to confront me like a warrior delivering a threat, but my face must have shown him I was as sorry to be delivering bad news as he was to hear it. He ran a thick, laborer's hand through his perfectly groomed hair and instantly became an older father.

  "My poor, poor Tina," he said. "Sit, sit, and talk to me.”

  This was the part I feared most, the powerful need to protect his daughter. My maternal instincts had yet to be driven to their limits, yet I knew those limits far exceeded anything I would do for anyone else except Rip, my mother, and previously my father.

  I threw my purse on an overstuffed red leather chair and rested against its cushiony arm. Behind the desk D'Avanzo slumped noisily into a swivel chair on rollers. Light from one brass floor lamp and one red table lamp carved deep shadows into his forehead and cheeks, aging him by several years.

  And still I was frightened to my very core. Michael D'Avanzo was one of those rare individuals who had what my mother called "presence." He filled a room of any size. Politicians ascended to the presidency with presence and a good speechwriter. Actors and athletes pulled in fortunes with presence and a good set of teeth. And no doubt Mafia dons intimidated their peers with presence and a reliable semiautomatic weapon.

  My mother was too oblivious to be prejudiced, my father too liberal. Appreciating individuality was my Sunday school lesson, the ABC's of being a Struve. Yet I knew the difference between walking down a center city alleyway during rush hour with hundreds of commuters and walking alone down that alley any other time. The displaced person in the back doorway of the burger joint might be harmless to a crowd, not necessarily so to a lone woman in high heels.

  Yet fear is not always so rational. I'm also afraid of the snakes in the zoo. Not as frightened as I would be of one slithering toward my feet; but the fear is nevertheless real, and I am not entirely able to control it.

  So there in Michael D'Avanzo's office, having already upset him with intentions of possibly infuriating him, it did not especially help for reason to remind me that few Italians are criminals. Just as with other groups of any description, I also realized that some were.

  Let's face it, in the Philadelphia of my youth news of Mob slayings occasionally eclipsed the sports coverage, so a man named D'Avanzo possessing both presence and a painting of Venice naturally might fuel my childish imagination. Although I personally knew the man only as a flirt who wore tasteful clothes, enjoyed vintage wine, and adored his grandson, my mind insisted on waving a file card in front of my eyes—a card that read "Very connected...pending clarification." Common sense told me to choose my words carefully.

  "First I have to tell you something about Tina," I began. With luck, if he took this part well, the second part would go better.

  "Go on."

  I squirmed with reluctance. I wished myself home with my family. If it meant never coming across Richard Wharton's body, I wished us all back in Ludwig before Rip even applied for the Bryn Derwyn job.

  "Your daughter doesn't really care for her husband anymore."

  D'Avanzo said nothing. He did not move. I could scarcely see him breathe.

  "Go on."

  "I guess she felt neglected," a fabricated excuse, but so common that Tina herself probably even believed it. "She's been afraid to tell you."

  "Afraid..." Her father’s face sagged.

  "I don't think they think they can afford to divorce."

  D'Avanzo wagged his head in disgust and said something sharp in Italian. "She told this to you and not to me? Why?"

  I shrugged.

  D'Avanzo shot forward. "I'll tell you why. Because they are greedy, both of them. They know they would have to stop spending money they don't have. They know I would no longer send business toward that pathetic company of his. Pah, on the both of them. Now tell me the rest." D'Avanzo was standing now, pacing.

  "For several months your daughter had been interested in someone else." I watched D'Avanzo's eyes. With his thumbs in his pants pockets and his chin lowered he glared at me with those eyes, the patriarch deceived and therefore scorned. I watched those eyes very carefully.

  "She'd been interested in Richard Wharton."

  "How do you know this?"

  I couldn’t admit that I tricked Tina into implicating herself, so I lied and said I saw her in the copy room with Richard instead of Randy.

  D'Avanzo grunted. I could see emotions roiling inside him, but whatever they were remained unreadable. "So you think Edwin found out and killed this man? Is that what you're saying? Eh?"

  "Yes. His car was parked in the school lot at the time of the murder, but he didn't have an appointment with anyone, and nobody actually saw him. He must have followed Wharton to the school or phoned his office to find out where he was. Probably used a back door to get in and out..."

  "And you say you do or do not have proof of this?"

  From my standpoint it was vital that D'Avanzo shift any lingering loyalty toward Eddie wholly onto his daughter, but he was adjusting so easily I had to wonder whether he ever liked his son-in-law. Instinct again, and my cue to capitalize on it. Follow his stoic example. Conceal my quivering knees.

  "I know where to get proof. That's why I'm here. I need your help."

  "My help!"

  "Yes."

  The man actually laughed. "Okay, Shirley Jones, tell me about this so-called proof."

  Did he mean Sherlock Holmes? Was he patronizing me, trivializing the situation? Annoyance began to buoy my waning bravado.

  I folded my arms across my chest and explained how the murderer had used a hand-held vacuum to clear the area of trace evidence. "The Dustbuster I left outside the Community Room door had scratches on the top; but when I helped the police collect all of the ones belonging to the school, none had been scratched the way I remembered. “I think your son-in-law used the school's, took it home, then replaced it—either with one he and Tina already owned or a new one. I'm hoping the one with the incriminating debris is still at their house."

  "This vacuum, the one from the school—you think he went back later to replace it? You believe him that brave, or that foolish?"

  I waved my head. "Not necessarily either. He's frequently at the school. That's why nobody remembered his car right away. And if none of our Dustbusters was missing, nobody would necessarily figure out what he did."

  "Why haven't you taken this theory of yours to the police?"

  "Because I need my name kept out of it," I told him adamantly.

  Then I went a little coy, started playing with the edge of my coat. "Because even if the police believed me, the Dustbuster might not be there; and even if it's there, it may not provide proof enough to convict Eddie Longmeier..."

  I stuffed my fists into my overcoat pockets, "...and because I need Eddie to confess by tomorrow."

  D'Avanzo strolled back and forth, occasionally glancing in my direction.

  "I assume you would like to see justice done," I stated.

  "Ah, yes. Yes. It doesn't do to have murderers running around free. No, no. I'm thinking you could be right about Eddie. Oh yes. You could be right. But you could also be wrong."

  "Another reason why I'm here instead of at the police."

  "Explain."

  "I'd like you to tell Eddie that you know he knew about Tina and Richard, that you know his car was at the school, and you know where to obtain proof of his guilt. Tell him it would be best for Tina and Nicky if
he confessed immediately."

  Judging by my listener's lifted eyebrows and slow nod, he appreciated how a confession would divert attention from Tina's infidelity to Eddie's far more despicable act. Probably the part about Nicky needed more explanation.

  "Why immediately?" he asked.

  "You say you're grateful for what Bryn Derwyn has done for Nicky. So grateful that you plan to donate half a gym so both Nicky and Bryn Derwyn will benefit.

  "If Randy Webb is indicted at the Grand Jury hearing tomorrow, there may not be any more Bryn Derwyn for Nicky to attend. He would probably end up going somewhere not quite so perfect for him." In other words, much less tolerant of his learning style, his behavior, his ego. That at least needed no elaboration.

  "A bit extreme, wouldn't you say?" Michael D'Avanzo breathed in and out, and I sensed a shift in the atmosphere, an ominous movement beneath the surface. My hand reached back to the chair arm for support before I answered.

  "I imagine you go to great lengths to keep the public's trust in your restaurant, right?"

  "Yes, but I don't see..."

  "If one person died of food poisoning because of something one of your employees did, what would happen to La Firenze? Could you wait for it to recover? Would it ever recover? Even if you fired the employee and scoured the entire building with Clorox, would the public ever forget?"

  D'Avanzo’s eyes had hardened and his lips pressed tight, but I couldn’t stop now.

  "Randy Webb isn't squeaky clean,” I said. “Rip is checking him out; but if whatever he's been up to gets exposed to the public, even if he didn't murder Richard, Bryn Derwyn loses face. Randy Webb just plain has to step out of the spotlight before it's too late."

  Any semblance of the man who greeted me so warmly had disappeared. D'Avanzo's face became a rigid mask, his eyes unforgiving, his whole body a tangible physical force. The impression lasted only a moment, so short a time that now and then in the upcoming days I would convince myself that it had not occurred at all. But, of course, it did.

  During that one unguarded moment the restaurateur revealed himself to be the most menacing human being I had yet encountered. The revelation terrified me so that I finally saw the truth. What I’d started was huge.

  And now it was beyond my control.

  All I’d wanted to do was save Randy Webb and, at the same time, Bryn Derwyn Academy. Unfortunately, my plan depended on Michael D'Avanzo responding like everybody else I knew. Like Rip or Joanne Henry...or me.

  I saw now that my trust had been recklessly naive, a realization that almost made me physically ill. Armed with my information, Michael D'Avanzo was as dangerous and unpredictable as a loaded gun. And I was powerless to stop him.

  Chapter 33

  FEAR IS POWERFUL. Fear puts you in your place.

  I drove home with my eyes narrowed against the glare of oncoming cars, my fist buried into my painful stomach. While I kept watch for places to pull over in a hurry, just in case, my mind thought of nothing but Michael D'Avanzo.

  Why had he frightened me so? His self-control had been extraordinary. If I hadn't caught that one glimpse of chilling calm, I would never have guessed the magnitude of his anger. Indeed, at one point I remembered thinking he had distanced himself from his son-in-law with unusual ease.

  My stomach lurched. I pulled over.

  When I got back into the car, driving the rest of the way home safely pushed all other thoughts aside. I would have all night to dissect my impressions of Michael D'Avanzo, to second guess myself—to be sick with worry.

  "Flu bug," I told Didi and the children as I staggered into the house. "No dinner. Bed." My plan for avoiding any probing questions.

  Didi cocked her head as she looked me over then grabbed my sleeve and ushered me up to my room. There she wiped my face with a cool washcloth and turned out the light. Soon I heard dishes clink and water run as she cooked for my family and later cleaned up.

  My nervous stomach tormented me for a few hours more, until I was too exhausted to remain awake.

  When Rip came to bed, my eyes snapped open again. He noticed me blinking and came over. Brushed my hair away from my forehead, kissed me, and told me he hoped I'd feel better in the morning. As always, he slept like a rock.

  Usually, just hearing him breathe comforted me when I lay awake, but not tonight. I kept thinking of what I'd told Michael D'Avanzo—and what I had deliberately left out.

  In the morning I rested until everyone else had gone. Then I showered and dressed in presentable slacks and a sweater, lingered over tea and toast with the newspaper, which, for once, carried nothing about Bryn Derwyn's troubles. Then, unable to stand my own company any longer, I climbed into my coat and walked over to school.

  Joanne's eyebrows rose. "Thought you were sick."

  "All better," I announced with as much energy as I could muster. "Came over to help. Rip around?"

  If I still looked ill, Joanne was too polite to mention it. "In there," she said, referring to the mail room.

  Rip gaped with surprise. "What are you doing here?"

  "Guess it was just something I ate." Crow, perhaps. "I'm fine." Except for the dark circles under my eyes and the impending fidgets.

  I told Rip the business about Randy's Grand Jury had me jumpy, which it did, and that I needed to be around people. "Give me something useful to do—anything," I begged.

  "You mean it? You sure you're all right?"

  "Yes and yes."

  "We’ve got a few thank-you notes to donors that shouldn't wait. Normally, Randy would do them..."

  "Anything to keep busy."

  "Know what you mean, babe." He pulled a fistful of papers out of Randy's mailbox. "Receipt forms and thank you cards will be somewhere in the development office. Just add a personal note at the bottom."

  "I know, I know," I told my mate with a smile. I'd noticed the forms during my search. Despite the possibility of shocking his assistant, I kissed my husband right smack in the mail room.

  An hour later Rip swept into Randy's office beaming like a fool, and my heart almost stopped. Whatever my visit to Michael D'Avanzo instigated had happened. My husband's elation could mean nothing else.

  Rip grabbed my hands. "Newkirk just called," he announced. "Tina Longmeier confessed."

  The release of tension left me limp. All night long I had obsessed about the hundred ways my strategy could go wrong, but it had worked!

  "She's pleading temporary insanity—can you believe it?"

  I could. A man and his wife have one fight too many. The woman chooses to believe her lover's pillow talk and leaves her husband. Astonished, the lover rejects her, perhaps even laughs in her face. She flips out, grabs the nearest weapon... Sure, I could believe it. I had believed it as soon as I realized what must have been under the Suburu's cargo cover.

  "Wow, that's astonishing!" I exclaimed.

  All along, the softball photo had lingered in my mind. No matter that Tina's scowl had projected her distaste for the game; she had been on a team, and everyone on a team is taught how to bat. Just like riding a bike, Tina's muscles would remember the stance, the grip, how the hips held still while the torso turned smoothly for a nice solid connection.

  Remembering the covered cargo in the back of Eddie's station wagon made sense out of everything else. To my knowledge Eddie never concealed any of his construction gear, probably because it would have been of little interest to a thief. So something worth hiding had been stowed back there Friday afternoon. I reasoned that if Tina was the driver, the cargo could have been suitcases, packed with the intention of leaving her husband. Unfortunately, that wasn't anything I could prove.

  Sending Michael D'Avanzo to accuse his son-in-law of murder was the only solution I could think of that kept me out of the middle. If Eddie Longmeier happened to be guilty, D'Avanzo would surely want him behind bars, for Tina’s safety if nothing else.

  But, for Eddie to have been guilty, there should have been a hint of premeditation; the coincidence of
catching Richard at school then grabbing the nearest weapon simply didn’t fit. Also, nothing Longmeier said or did suggested that he cared enough about his wife to want to eliminate a rival.

  No, Eddie and Tina remaining married for financial reasons made much more sense, just as Richard's rejection of Tina made sense. Everything I knew about Wharton suggested that he was a selfish lech who loved risks, such as touching a woman’s knee with her husband sitting at the same table. Play with a dangerous man’s married daughter? Sure. Run away with her? Highly unlikely.

  Cause and effect. Tina gets the bad news, grabs the nearest lethal object...and slides by until her father stops by for a chat with her husband. Horrified by the damning evidence D’Avanzo describes, Longmeier reveals that his wife had the station wagon that day; and, oh yes, that he knew she was fooling around with the victim. I wasn’t there, but my guess is he threw Tina under the bus faster than you can dial 911.

  Now that the authorities were aware of her guilt, I trusted that they would be able to substantiate it. The cars for sure, and maybe the Dustbuster would turn up somewhere in their house. “Congratulations,” I told Rip, pulling him in for another kiss.

  NATURALLY, THE SHOCK and titillation of Tina Longmeier's guilt spread through the school like spring fever gone viral, but by lunch everyone had reined in their elation and tried to behave normally. For Rip and me that meant exchanging questions and answers about my assigned thank-you notes, which were not nearly as straightforward as they sounded.

  Randy arrived about one-thirty to find us huddled over the work on his desk. He looked thinner, older, and exhausted; but he also beamed with self-congratulation.

  "Hello, boys and girls," he bubbled. "Great to be back."

  Rip offered his hand. "Rough deal," he told his Director of Development with sincerity. "Glad you're finally free of it."

  "Shouldn't you be home with Annie?" I asked. I hated the thought of him leaving her to come to work so soon after his release. If Rip had been jailed for even a second, our reunion honeymoon would last for weeks.