The Main Line Is Murder

by Donna Huston Murray

  "Yeah, I guess. I just had to stop in. You know, because I can." Then he grinned even wider. "Work must have piled up. Miss the old boy, did you?"

  Rip and I exchanged uncomfortable glances. Short term, the school hadn’t noticeably suffered from Randy's absence.

  "Excuse me, Gin," Rip said to my surprise. "I do need to show him some work." With that he departed, leaving Randy and me to stare at each other.

  "Oooh. Mysterious," Randy joked.

  I laughed to dispel the awkward moment. "So what got you off the hook?" I asked, not expecting him to know.

  Wrong again. He knew plenty.

  "It's the damnedest thing. Husband gave the cops a blood-spattered skirt he found in the street.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Crows had picked apart one of their trash bags, scattered food and junk all over the place. It was just dumb luck that Longmeier saw it before Tina. Anyway, he had stashed the skirt away for a rainy day, if you know what I mean." Randy's leer seemed to suggest coercion of some male/female nature, which in Eddie and Tina’s case probably meant divorce negotiations.

  “And getting accused of murder is a helluva rainy day."

  “You got that right. So out comes the bloody skirt and in come the cops. Tina confessed before her lawyer showed up."

  "Really?"

  "Yup. Cursed Richard Wharton up and down. My attorney's source said she actually made Newkirk blush."

  "No kidding." I would have enjoyed seeing that.

  Then I had another thought. "Will the confession hold up?" I wondered aloud.

  "Who cares? She did it, and I'm out." Randy couldn't resist a touchdown jig across the end of his desk. I can’t say I blamed him.

  Also, he had a point. Now it was up to the professionals—forensics technicians and attorneys—then a jury of Tina's peers.

  Rip still wasn’t back, so I stood up and offered Randy his chair. He had imprinted himself on his work space, and he seemed to feel proprietary about it, the way I longed to feel toward our Bryn Derwyn house. So what if the Christmas tree had not yet worked its magic? Something would. Eggnog and carols, presents. If not, maybe daffodils in Spring.

  Rip finally re-entered the room carrying a photocopy of a letter. He solemnly laid it on the desk in front of Randy.

  "What's this?" the director of development asked; but a sudden sheen of sweat glossed his face, and his hands flexed and twitched.

  "It's your pink slip, Randy," Rip answered. "I think you know that."

  "But...?"

  Rip sighed. "As you can see, it's your letter to Agnes Borkowski," the name of a Philadelphia woman known for her generosity. Recent rumors hinted that she’d become more eccentric than usual, possibly due to senility.

  Randy's mouth opened, but no words came forth.

  I speed-read the letter over his shoulder. It was a solicitation pitch very similar to the many I had signed, except it was typed on a sheet of the "Bryn Derwyn, Inc." letterhead I retrieved from Randy's house. At the bottom of the typewritten message was a personal message in Randy’s feathery handwriting. Below it the addressee had replied, "Sorry. Changed my mind due to recent events. Perhaps another time. AB."

  Evidently, Agnes was not so doddering as rumor had it. She had replaced the phony return envelope with one of her own and had handwritten the school's proper address. Score one for Agnes.

  "Any more of these I should know about?" Rip inquired.

  Randy was still too stunned to speak.

  It was then that I got to see how suited my husband was to his work. With a face at once stern and compassionate, he addressed the man who had schemed to defraud the school. "So, Randy,” he began, “which euphemism would you like me to use? Moved on to greater challenges? Preferred not to return after your unpleasant incarceration? Family illness? Personal problems? All of the above?"

  Randy nodded.

  Rip tilted his head toward the door, signaling that we should let the man clear out his desk in private.

  "No second chance?" I asked when we were far enough away.

  Still angry, Bryn Derwyn’s headmaster stopped and glared. "Would you rather have me send him back to jail? Because if that stupid scheme of his had gone any further, that's where he was headed."

  "Sorry. You're right. I was just feeling sorry for Annie. Their marriage is already shaky."

  Rip’s head jerked. "Where on earth did you hear that?"

  Flushing instantly, I muttered something vague about overhearing a conversation.

  My husband peered at me with a curious intensity I’d never seen before. I found myself memorizing his expression, internalizing it so that in the future I would never make such a mistake again. The road to purgatory–paved with my good intentions.

  In the meantime I would make a mental note of what I could and could not say about my activities during the past week.

  Chapter 34

  TINA'S CONFESSION should have washed me clean with relief, but I still felt unsettled and vaguely worried. Aftershock maybe. Exhaustion, for sure. Perhaps if I just finished the notes Rip asked me to write I would feel better. So, running on willpower, I did just that.

  Then, despite a combination stress/insomnia headache, I forced myself to shop for and prepare a guilt-induced meal—pork chops, spinach, baked potatoes, salad, rolls, and purchased brownies. During dessert, Newkirk appeared at the door, a battle-weary hound wishing to be patted on his head. He accepted a brownie and coffee. Without removing his coat, he settled with them in a living room chair. Rip and I left Garry and Chelsea at the table and followed his example.

  Newkirk worked at some walnuts with his tongue and said, "Lucky turn of events, wouldn't you say?"

  No comment from the Barneses.

  "Thought it was your guy Webb for sure, but it just goes to show you..."

  I rearranged myself to look more relaxed while internally bracing for exposure. Didn’t work, so I decided to deal with the anxiety head on. "Any idea why Longmeier finally came forward?" I inquired mildly.

  "Well now, that's the interesting thing," Newkirk replied. "The way Longmeier figured it, a husband can't be forced to testify against his wife, so why bother turning her in? Except last night his father-in-law paid him this visit, the point of which was to accuse Longmeier of doing the murder." The investigator took another bite of brownie and washed it down.

  "So...?" I prompted.

  "So the husband figures keeping quiet about the skirt is no longer in his best interest. Did you know he had her blood-spattered skirt? Well, not so much blood as..." he eyed the brownie in his right hand and the coffee in his left. "Never mind."

  Newkirk shook his head and continued. "Anyway, Eddie wasn't about to take the rap for his wife, not for a second, especially since he found out she'd been fooling around with the victim. He figured it was time to turn her in."

  "Why last night? Any idea?" My insides flip-flopped. I kept glancing from my husband to Newkirk, from Newkirk to my husband.

  "Something about the Grand Jury thing today. Story is D'Avanzo didn't want to see an innocent man railroaded."

  "You buy that?" Rip asked.

  "Sure. Some folks are decent, contrary to popular opinion. You got another brownie in there?" He jerked an elbow toward the dining room.

  I gave him the rest of the package to go; but before he left, he turned back to deliver his intended message. "Sorry about all the, you know, trouble this caused. You've got a nice little school here. Hope it'll be okay."

  "It is a nice little school," Rip agreed. "And it would help a lot if you'd tell all your friends."

  "Be my pleasure."

  Rip shut the door and smiled. "He seemed happy," he said, sounding surprised. "I almost liked him."

  "Yeah, he's not such a bad guy, for a cop," I agreed. "His social skills still need a little work."

  "Yours, too." Rip frowned. "I wanted another one of those brownies."

  LYING AWAKE AGAIN that night, I debated the wisdom of keeping silent about
my part in Tina Longmeier's confession. By morning I still hadn't decided what to do.

  On Saturday, I concentrated on finishing neglected chores, such as re-stapling the ruffle of an overstuffed chair Barney once used as a pull toy and scrubbing the edges of the dishwasher door with an old toothbrush. I touched up the stain on Garry's headboard where the movers had chipped it. I even unpacked the last two boxes of Rip's mother's china—stuff we never used, and never expected to use. Then I refilled the boxes with stuff I removed from our hutch.

  I went to bed exhausted—only to stare at the ceiling until dawn.

  All day Sunday I felt like cow cud, ached, didn't have enough concentration to read a cereal box, and snapped at Garry when he asked for more milk. Other than that, I functioned fairly well.

  Since Thursday night's holiday concert was only five days away, I did take time in the afternoon to brave the Community Room closet, again with an eye toward making those old school store items saleable. If I bought votive candles and set them inside those shot glasses with the Bryn Derwyn logo, touted the oversized T-shirts as nightshirts, stuck a couple napkins from home through the scarf rings to give people the idea—maybe some of this junk would sell after all. The baseball hats still looked good, and the eyeglass cases. I even wrote Jacob a note about where to find that big spool of telephone wire I found in there before.

  Most, but not all, of the time I spent working at the scene of the crime I blocked any thoughts about Richard Wharton's murder. That ordeal at least, was over. However, my fear from Thursday night refused to leave entirely.

  True, I could confess my role in Tina's arrest and get protection for my family, but there were costs to consider on either side of that fence. At no time during my private investigation had I considered myself to be undermining my marriage. That was a risk I would never consciously choose to take. I realized now that I hadn’t thought it through. Rip’s position of authority was new–to both of us. What if, God forbid, he learned what I did and misinterpreted my motives? What if he somehow saw my frustrated need to set things right as a lack of confidence in his ability to preserve the school? If he ever decided to think that, would I ever be able to convince him otherwise?

  Michael D'Avanzo was a wealthy and powerful man, capable of expansive warmth and sudden, marrow-curdling menace, and I had manipulated him into causing the arrest of his own daughter. Instinctively, every cell in my body anticipated retribution. I had no tangible evidence to support my fears regarding Tina’s father—not a word, not a gesture, nothing but pure instinct. My head and heart weighed the odds and chose to keep my role in her confession secret.

  Assuming Michael D'Avanzo permitted me to.

  The possibility existed that he still thought I believed my own story. Maybe he recognized that it wasn't my fault his daughter responded violently to Richard's rejection. Maybe he blamed himself for spoiling her. Maybe he blamed Richard Wharton.

  But maybe he blamed me for how it all turned out.

  As the days blended into the nights, I developed dark, haunted circles beneath my aching eyes. Despite plodding through the simplest of household tasks, I refused to see a doctor. A doctor would prescribe pills. Pills would cause me to sleep. If I was unconscious, no one would be looking out for my family.

  On Monday morning, I kept my eye on Chelsea and Garry through the kitchen window until their bus picked them up. I even stepped into the front yard, ostensibly to supervise Barney's AM outing, but really to see Rip safely into the school.

  On an intellectual level I knew that what I was doing was about as worthwhile as looking under the bed for the bogeyman. Occasionally, your nervous system just plain insists on seeing for itself.

  After rehearsal that evening, Didi, Rip, and our kids arrived home about five-thirty in a jolly mood. Rehearsal had been hilarious, and Garry and Chelsea seemed pleased to be making friends with some of the Bryn Derwyn students.

  Didi took one look at me and said, “You look like shit."

  "Guess I've got a flu bug after all."

  "Nauseous?"

  "Now and then," I admitted. "Not too bad."

  "You hungry?" She pressed her wrist against my forehead. I knew it to be cool and dry. We both knew wrists were unreliable thermometers.

  "Oddly, I am a little hungry."

  Didi shrugged and told the kids to set the table, a task I had not yet managed to do.

  I turned my attention to Rip. "So what's got you pumped up?" I asked.

  "Am I? Maybe I am. Some key students came back, and it looks as if others will follow."

  "That's great."

  "Yes, it really is. Now I just have to dazzle them with my footwork, get them excited about next year."

  “Should I start calling you Merlin?"

  "You better not!" He circled my shoulders from behind and kissed my hair. "I'm worried about you."

  "I'll be fine. What else happened?" I switched around to drink in the sight of his face.

  He shrugged and said, "Nicky D'Avanzo was absent, but I doubt if that means anything."

  ON TUESDAY RIP found out that Michael D'Avanzo had transferred Nicky to public school. The letter of withdrawal cited social difficulties stemming from his aunt's arrest as the impetus behind the mid-year switch.

  "Would other kids really be unkind about that?" I asked.

  "Sure, given the chance. Except they didn’t have much chance. Tina turned herself in Friday, and Nicky hasn't been to school since."

  I was awake anyway, so I brooded about that one all Tuesday night.

  On Wednesday D'Avanzo phoned Rip to personally deliver the bad news about the gym.

  "I'm sorry, but the project no longer interests me. I'm sure you understand. My regards to your lovely wife."

  I spent Wednesday night and the early hours of Thursday morning on a mental treadmill, imagining that I was chasing after my own sanity.

  Thursday afternoon Eddie Longmeier stopped by Rip's office to inquire about the school's intentions regarding the contract with his company.

  "I've got to make plans, you know." Life goes on.

  Rip used the excuse that Bryn Derwyn's development director "departed suddenly," adding that without D'Avanzo's pledge “the Board has shelved any work on the gym project until summer. Sorry.”

  "Yeah, sorry,” the contractor replied. “There's a lot of that going around."

  THURSDAY, DECEMBER 16, was the day of the holiday concert, and the school was electric with excitement.

  "I just hope all these high spirits don't cause any damage," Rip remarked at breakfast, “although the destructive pranks seem to have stopped." For luck, he knocked on our wooden table.

  "Maybe because police were around so much," I suggested. "You're not letting down your guard, are you?"

  "Don’t worry,” Rip assured me. “Those extra security measures are here to stay–the parents won’t have it any other way, and neither would I."

  I breathed a little easier, but not much.

  To get a jump on the store display, I went over to school almost as early as Rip. Didi was already there, looking like a froufrou wedding confection in a lavender mohair dress and shiny brown boots. I felt like coffee grounds in comparison.

  She was there to tempt non-participating teachers and students to attend that night's performance with a preview: the fourth grade singing "Joy to the World." However, Didi's version began, "Jeremiah was a bullfrog," and went on from there. The whole assembly clapped along. Some sang, and across the room from me Rip jitterbugged with the French teacher. Personally, I couldn't imagine where he got the energy.

  Even with Didi's help it was all I could do to move the loaded mitten tree aside and set up the school store on a table in the center of the lobby. But by ten we were done. I sank onto the nearest chair to admire our eye-catching conglomeration of red, white, and Bryn Derwyn green. Sweatshirts, notebooks, and other school staples filled out my collection of novelties. Ruth and Joanne would watch over the merchandise for the rest of the day.r />
  "Go home to bed," Didi ordered. "I'm worried about you, girl,"

  "Yeah, thanks," I said. Then, thinking out loud, I added, "This probably won't last much longer."

  Chapter 35

  MY ACCOMPLISHMENTS for Thursday afternoon were few. When insomnia erodes your nights, anxiety devours your days. So using soap opera background noise to keep me focused, I managed only to wrap an assortment of small Christmas presents Rip and I had chosen for the people at school. Fudge in a pretty tin box for the cook, a wool scarf for Joanne, a bottle of Jack Daniels for Jacob, that sort of thing. Rip would hand them out just before vacation next week, friendly gestures in return for theirs.

  The packages looked pretty under the tree, which I lighted at twilight in an attempt to warm my soul and get me into the spirit of the season. Then I fixed a hamburger, noodle, and tomato sauce casserole the kids call Cowboy Stew. Didi, this week's permanent dinner guest, and all of us Barneses needed something quick so we could rush back to school for the evening program.

  "C'mon, tell me," I coaxed my best friend as we all ate. "Just a little hint. What will we be seeing tonight?"

  Nobody said a word, not even Rip, who had pronounced yesterday's dress rehearsal, "Unique."

  We postponed dessert for later, and everybody whisked their empty dishes into the kitchen where I stood and fed them to the dishwasher, including my plastic Phillies cup, which was showing signs of wear from rubbing against the racks. Mixed emotions about that.

  Everybody was already out the door, so I hurried to catch up, wriggling into my long red wool coat, grabbing my purse, unplugging the Christmas tree, slamming the door, and checking the lock.

  Half a dozen cars were already in the parking lots. In the lobby a very polite man I didn't recognize helped me out of my coat and hung it on the portable rack opposite the auditorium door. I thanked him, regretting that I didn't know his name. Maybe if I saw him later with his child I could figure out who he was.