Viola Avenue

by Pamela Grandstaff

  “Bad summer, huh?”

  ‘The worst,” the woman said, and clinked Claire’s glass with her own. “To never having another summer like this past one.”

  “Amen,” Claire said.

  “You look familiar,” the woman said.

  “I was at Alan’s funeral,” Claire said. “Did you know Alan well?”

  “No,” the woman said. “My husband knew him.”

  “I’m Claire,” Claire said, and held out her hand.

  “Sue,” the woman said, as she shook her outstretched hand. “Suzanne is what my husband calls me in public, and at functions like these, but I’m plain old Sue Carter from Chattanooga, Tennessee, and it doesn’t matter what I do, that’s all I’ll ever be.”

  “I never feel like I belong at these kinds of things,” Claire said.

  Sue looked her up and down.

  “You clean up nice,” she said, and saluted Claire with her drink.

  “Thanks,” Claire said. “Do you and your husband have any kids?”

  Sue went perfectly still, although she still swayed a bit. She downed the rest of her drink and threw the glass over the edge of the terrace. Claire could hear it shatter on the concrete below.

  “Are you okay?” Claire asked.

  Sue reached out for Claire’s drink, and after Claire handed it to her, she downed it and threw it over the edge as well.

  “No,” Sue said, as she wiped her mouth. “I’m not okay.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Claire said. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Do you work at the college?”

  “I do,” Claire said. “I’m an adjunct instructor.”

  “Poor you, then,” Sue said. “Literally, I mean. I know how little adjuncts get paid. They’ve got to save that dough for the administration and the marketing department.”

  “I guess so.”

  “I asked if you work here because if you do, you can’t tell anyone anything I tell you,” Sue said. “You’d lose your job, just like that.”

  She attempted to snap her fingers but wasn’t able. She shrugged and looked around to see if anyone was near.

  “My husband doesn’t want me to tell anyone,” she said. “What they did to my son.”

  “Who did something to your son?”

  “This place,” she gestured at the building behind them. “We thought when we came here it was such a nice, small town, and such a beautiful campus. It’s not, though, you know that? The town is full of gossipy busybodies and this place is full of depraved, spoiled predators.”

  “What happened to your son?”

  “They corrupted him,” she said.

  Tears spilled out of her eyes and down her cheeks.

  “That’s terrible,” Claire said. “Did they catch the person who did it?”

  “No,” Sue said. “But he got his.”

  “Was he arrested?”

  “Of course not!” Sue said, a little too loudly. “We can’t have the good name of Eldridge College dragged through the mud; who would send their children here? Who would pay for all this?”

  “I see,” Claire said.

  “My poor boy,” Sue said. “We had to send him away. The gossip, you see. The horrible small town gossip just would not stop!”

  “When did he leave?” Claire asked.

  She felt bad about asking, but she wanted to know.

  “Labor Day,” Sue said. “There was an Eldridge Board of Trustees barbecue we had to attend during the day so we left that afternoon and stayed all night in Richmond; he started the next day.”

  It would be easy for Scott to corroborate that with the school in Virginia. If Rowan had an alibi for Labor Day evening, then what other boy could it have been?

  Claire thought of Tommy, with his brown hair and build that was similar to Rowan’s. She pushed the thought away, but it wouldn’t go. More than one teenager was drugged and molested at the party; Rowan and Charlotte may have just been two of them. Had Teague and his friends done the molesting, or delivered the innocents to Professor Richmond in return for favors?

  Tommy loved Charlotte. He would do anything for her. Maybe even avenge her molestation at the hands of a professor. But if it was Tommy who killed Alan; who was the dark-haired woman who attempted to cover up the crime?

  Beatrice Heffernan had long dark hair, and she hated Alan.

  Claire only had Rafe’s word to go on that there was a young boy at Alan’s apartment. What if Rafe was the murderer and there was no dark-haired woman? He knew Beatrice hated Alan. What if he was setting up Beatrice to take the blame?

  “My only son!” Sue cried. “I gave him up, for what? This place? I never should have agreed to it. He’s gone. Do you understand? He’s gone!”

  Sue had gotten very loud and the tears were streaming down her face, taking her mascara with them. Claire looked to see if anyone was coming to see what the problem was, and noticed a man in a suit peering out at them through the window.

  “I’m so sorry,” Claire said.

  “I’m not allowed to talk about it,” Sue said, sobbing now. “But I have to talk about it! I have to be allowed to talk about it!”

  She was screaming now, and Claire was frightened by the look on her face.

  The college president came through the open window, looking very concerned, and walked purposefully to his wife’s side.

  “Suzanne,” he said, taking her firmly by the arm. “We ought to get going.”

  “This is Claire,” Sue said, pointing at Claire.

  The president looked completely disinterested, but said, “Nice to meet you. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

  Claire watched him tug his wife along after him, ignoring her protests. They left by an outside stairway at the side of the terrace.

  Claire went back inside. As she made her way to the exit, she passed closely behind Beatrice and Agatha. Beatrice backed into her and spilled her drink all down Claire’s suit jacket and skirt.

  Beatrice started to say, “I’m terribly sorry,” but then saw it was Claire, and said, “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Yes, thanks,” Claire said, using a napkin handed to her by a nearby waiter to try to wipe off the wine.

  The accident hadn’t seemed to have drawn anyone’s attention; they were all probably used to Beatrice’s party accidents. Beatrice leaned in and poked Claire in the collar bone with her finger.

  “You should watch where you’re going,” Beatrice said, with menace.

  Claire couldn’t help it; her temper flared.

  “You shouldn’t drink so much,” Claire said, and then gestured to Maurice. “You’re embarrassing your boyfriend.”

  Beatrice gasped and the color drained out of her face. The look in her eyes was of real, primal fear.

  “Oh dear,” Agatha said. “Oh, my goodness.”

  Claire rolled her eyes at Agatha and said, “Have a good evening.”

  Claire turned and left the room, leaving Beatrice frozen in shock. When she got outside she breathed in the cool night air and unbuttoned her jacket, letting the breeze flow over her skin.

  “I don’t belong here,” she said out loud. “I need to make better life decisions.”

  Claire walked down the stairs, and was halfway across the central lawn when she heard someone call her name.

  It was Maurice Jarvis.

  “Claire,” he said. “I just heard the most disturbing story about you from Professor Heffernan.”

  “All true,” she said. “I’d apologize, but I’m not a bit sorry.”

  Maurice chuckled.

  “You’re a troublemaker,” he said. “What are we going to do with you?”

  “I don’t know,” Claire said. “Just please don’t take it out on Ed, whatever bone-headed thing I do.”

  “Ed’s doing a great job,” Maurice said. “Too bad this is the last class that will have the benefit of his tutelage.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The board has decided to let this group of journalism majors finish thei
r degrees, but we’re not accepting any more students into the program.”

  “Why?”

  “Lack of interest, for one thing,” he said. “There are so few jobs for graduates we can’t place anyone once they do graduate. We can hardly justify Ed’s salary, as low as it is.”

  “He’ll be crushed,” Claire said. “He loves his job.”

  “I may be able to find him a place in the English department,” Maurice said.

  “That would be great,” Claire said.

  “You might be able to persuade me,” he said, and then leaned in way too close for Claire’s comfort. “I’d love it if you’d try.”

  His breath smelled like whiskey. Claire recognized the look he was giving her, one part smirk and the other part lust.

  “As my good friend Sammy always says, I’d sooner kiss a rat’s heiny,” Claire said.

  “There’s no need to be offensive,” Maurice said, as he straightened up and adjusted his tie.

  “Clearly, there is,” Claire said. “I know there are plenty of professors and students willing to submit to you for what they want, but I’m not one of them.”

  “I’ll speak with you in my office tomorrow,” he said. “I think your behavior at the reception will be cause enough to fire you. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  With that, he stalked away, back toward the building where the reception was being held.

  “See you then, Maurice,” Claire said. “Tell your wife I said hi.”

  He turned and roared at her, “I will not be blackmailed!”

  Claire laughed in response.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I could care less who you’re sleeping with, and I bet your wife agrees. Less work for her.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Claire decided not to wait for him to fire her. She made her way through the darkened campus to Winslow Homer Hall, and took the steps down to the basement, intending to retrieve the things she had left in the classroom.

  She was halfway down the hall when the lights went out.

  Instinctively, Claire backed into the entrance alcove of the theater and flattened herself against the wall. She could hear the faint sound of someone’s shoes on the linoleum floor. She turned toward the door so her face was hidden and held her breath as that person passed her, using their phone as a flashlight. Whoever it was headed down toward the dressing room where she had intended to go.

  The darkness was so complete that Claire couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. She was thankful to be dark-haired and wearing a black suit.

  Claire considered her options. She could try to go back the way she came, but she wasn’t sure she could find her way in the dark. She reached for her phone and then realized she must have left it in the restroom at the student center. She tested the swinging door to the theater and it was open. It didn’t squeak as she opened it and slid through, and she carefully let the door close behind her without making a sound.

  Someone had left a backstage light on, and she could see well enough. She knew from experience there had to be a stage door in the back of the theater, and you had to be able to push your way out through it; that was required by the Fire Marshal.

  She slid off her shoes and hid them under the first row of seats. She paused to listen for any sound from her pursuer but didn’t hear anything. She climbed the side stairs onto the stage and made for the wings.

  In the wings, her foot got caught on a rope and she knocked over a music stand. It made a loud clanging sound that anyone on that floor could have heard. She stood still and held her breath, so she clearly heard the whoosh of air as someone opened the door to the theater. This person let the door swing shut with a bang. Claire moved toward the light behind the backdrop and was then surprised to hear someone coming up the stairs back by the exit.

  She was trapped from both sides.

  She looked around and saw the ladder that led to the rigging over the stage. She grasped the ladder and climbed. Claire had no experience in stage craft, but she had stood in the wings for three months while her boss performed in a Broadway play. She had watched the stage manager and his crew operate the rigging, raising and lowering the scenery, which was balanced by heavy counterweights.

  She could just faintly see where she was going by the single lightbulb backstage. She climbed until she was up in the shadows above the stage, clinging to the catwalk, in a crouching position. There, on the catwalk, lay a stack of counterweights, which looked like weight-lifting weights, sitting next to a coiled-up cable awaiting installation. She lifted one of the weights and considered herself armed.

  Below she could see the stage area beneath her, lit only from a crack under the backdrop. She saw the shadow of someone coming down the aisle. But where was the person who had come up the back stairs? Were they in cahoots or strangers? Just then someone entered from stage right and shone a flashlight up into the rigging, right into Claire’s eyes.

  Claire threw the weight at the flashlight and was glad to hear the grunt as she hit her target and someone fell to the stage. She then heard the person who was coming up the aisle retreat, and the doors once more swing shut as that person left the theater.

  There was a low moaning sound from her target, so at least Claire knew where he or she was located. Claire climbed back down the stairs and raced in stocking feet to retrieve the flashlight, which had rolled away. From a safe distance she shone it on her target, who raised her head, blood streaming down her face from a wound on the forehead.

  It was Agatha Mappe.

  “She has a gun,” Agatha said. “She’s going to kill you; we have to get out of here.”

  “Who does?” Claire asked.

  The lights in the back of the theater went up, revealing Beatrice standing by the entrance, pointing a gun at Claire.

  “I’ve barricaded all the exits,” Beatrice said.

  “That’s not true,” Agatha whispered. “She hasn’t had time.”

  Claire attempted to help Agatha up, so the two of them could escape out the back door, but Agatha swooned and Claire could not hold her up. She knew she could make it on her own, but she couldn’t bear to leave Agatha a defenseless victim to whatever Beatrice was planning.

  “Save yourself,” Agatha said.

  “I’m not leaving you,” Claire said.

  “Don’t move!” Beatrice said.

  “What’s this about?” Claire said.

  “You know very well what this is about,” Beatrice said, as she made her way down the aisle with an unsteady gate. “You couldn’t know about Maurice and me unless he told you. It makes sense, now, how you got your job. You slept with him, and he told you about us.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Claire said.

  “No one else knows,” Beatrice said, as she moved forward down the aisle.

  She was weaving, and the hand holding the gun was not steady.

  “I knew,” Agatha said.

  “No one would believe you, you drug addict,” Beatrice said.

  “Everyone knows,” Claire said. “I heard it from the secretaries. The teaching assistants know about it, too.”

  “You’re lying to save your skin but it’s too late,” Beatrice said. “You’re not going to ruin this for him, not if I can help it.”

  Beatrice tripped and the gun went off.

  The shot went wild, and pierced the backdrop a few feet over Claire’s head.

  Claire’s heart pounded in her chest. Beatrice was crazy drunk and would kill them both if she didn’t find a way to disarm her. Claire decided to try to distract Beatrice, hoping a better idea would come to her in the meantime.

  “Did you kill Alan, Beatrice?” Claire asked her.

  “I was at the Board of Trustees barbecue all evening,” Beatrice said. “Agatha will vouch for me.”

  “It’s true,” Agatha said. “We were both there until after the fireworks. I saw you sneak off with Maurice into the conservatory for a snog, and then I saw you leave with your husband.”

  “Shut
up!” Beatrice said. “I’ll kill you both!”

  “If you didn’t kill anyone, then you’re being awfully dramatic for no good reason, Beatrice,” Claire said. “Put the gun down and we’ll say it was an accident.”

  “Oh, it was an accident all right,” Beatrice said. “Once I’ve killed you and put the gun in Agatha’s hand, that’s how I’ll report it. What a tragedy. The old drug addict rebuffed by the new instructor. She only meant to scare you with the gun; she thought it was a prop and not loaded.”

  “You’ve watched too much ‘Murder She Wrote,’ ” Claire said. “Nobody would fall for that.”

  “Shut up!” Beatrice said, as she attempted to mount the stairs to the stage. “I’ve got the gun; I’ll do the talking.”

  Something caught Claire’s eye.

  She could see someone moving about in the control booth, using a flashlight. She prayed it was someone who was trying to help.

  “Beatrice, you’re being foolish,” Claire said. “Let’s talk about this. If everyone knows about your affair and no one’s told on you, maybe no one cares. Did you ever think of that?”

  “You’d say anything to save your life,” Beatrice said. “But pretty soon it won’t matter what you know.”

  “Beatrice, really, you need to snap out of it,” Claire said. “This has gone too far.”

  “Alan’s death was convenient for us,” she says. “Maurice deserves that promotion, and I’m not going to let you ruin it. He said you threatened to blackmail him. I told him I’d take care of it.”

  Just as Beatrice stepped onto the stage, a powerful spotlight lit her up and blinded her.

  “Stop!” a voice came over the sound system. “Police!”

  There was something about the accent of the speaker that surprised Claire, but she didn’t have time to think about it. In her fright, Beatrice dropped the gun. As it hit the stage it went off, shot out a light above them, and glass rained down. Claire scrambled for the gun and got to it before Beatrice could regain her equilibrium.

  The rest of the lights in the theater came on.

  “I always knew you had a flair for the dramatic,” a voice with a familiar Scottish accent said over the speaker from the control booth. “But I’m shocked to see how far you’re willing to go to entertain me.”