by B K Stevens
She put her hands on her hips. “They’ll get a ride with Derrick. Berk says you’re checking something out. What?”
“Just a dumb theory. I’m probably wrong. I’ll check it out for two minutes and leave. If it turns out to be anything, I’ll text you.” I started to turn away.
Her hand clamped down on my shoulder. “You’re going to do something stupid and dangerous, aren’t you? Tell me what it is. What’s your theory?”
I shrugged, trying to act casual. “Just a theory about where Sherwood Forest might be, and about the doubly shady spot. I think they might be the same place. And I should check it out now. I said some stupid things today, to two different people—I might’ve tipped the killer off. If there’s any evidence there, I don’t want it destroyed before I can get to it, so—”
“You shouldn’t go,” she said. “It’s dangerous. You should at least wait until morning. But if you won’t change your mind, I’m coming, too. Where are you going?”
Time to take a stand. “I won’t tell you. It probably isn’t dangerous, but it’s definitely stupid. Go home, Graciana. I’ll text you.”
She gave me a look. “I’ve got my own car. You can’t stop me from following you.”
Thirty-five
She followed me to the far shore of Lake Charlotte. While I was driving, I tried to sort out my thoughts. Sending that second text message was stupid. Why work so hard to make Nina’s death look like suicide? Most people would’ve assumed it was suicide anyway. Marie might’ve thought it was an accident. But she knew Nina wasn’t suicidal, knew she couldn’t have written that message. That’s what made her turn to Coach for help, made him start looking into things. And planting the book in the locker, doing other things to cover up—way too complicated. This killer couldn’t keep things simple.
“The more you complicate things, the more you increase your chances of making mistakes.” I was counting on that.
But I’d made mistakes, too. Just today, I’d made two big ones. Twice, without realizing it, I’d made it sound like I was close to figuring everything out, like I was planning to tie things up tonight. And I’d called attention to that phrase from Nina’s text message. With the way talk got around at school, anyone might’ve heard all that by now. I might not be the only one out searching for the doubly shady spot tonight, looking for evidence that would point straight to the killer.
I might’ve even made someone decide to follow me, to see if I was up to something. I checked the rearview mirror again. Graciana’s car, practically tailgating me. I didn’t spot any other cars that seemed to be sticking close. But I wasn’t exactly an expert at this. When Bobby Davis had followed Berk and me last week, I didn’t notice his car until he was almost on top of us. So I shouldn’t let myself relax too much.
I parked in the main lot of what was left of Twin Dogwoods Manor. Twin Dogwoods—two flowering trees. If this was the place, if Coach figured that out, it would’ve been on his mind. It’d explain the drawings.
I got out of the car, switched on the plastic flashlight, and saw two tall, slender dogwood trees, their branches reaching out wide, thick with small pink blossoms. The hotel named after them died decades ago, but the trees still come back to life every spring. I couldn’t see the lake from here, not in the dark, but I could smell it, could feel the heavy moistness of the air. I heard frogs and crickets going at it loud and steady, with some bird—a loon, maybe—chiming in. Not a boarded-up store, I thought. This is Sherwood Forest.
Graciana pulled into the lot and walked over to me. “Twin Dogwoods Manor—a doubly shady spot. That works.”
“Sherwood Forest works, too. This’d be a good place to hide out from a violent father or brother. Most of the building’s probably a mess, but Nina might’ve found a room in decent shape where she could more or less camp out.”
I turned my flashlight on the hotel. The multicolored stone walls still stood, singed but intact, and the peaked slate roof seemed to be in decent shape. Sheets of plywood covered doors and windows, and the sloping lawns were overgrown, but otherwise the place didn’t look bad. We circled the building slowly. As far as I could tell from the exterior, the worst damage seemed to be in the central section and the west wing.
“The east wing looks okay,” I said, pointing. “I’ll check it out.”
“You’re going in? At night? Matt, it’s an abandoned building. A floor could collapse. Wild animals could be living in there. And the property must belong to somebody. You’d be trespassing.”
“I won’t stay long. One quick look, and I’m out. You should go home, but if you won’t, wait here. If I’m not out in half an hour—”
“Half an hour! I will not stand here for half an hour, wondering if you’ve fallen through a floor or gotten eaten alive by coyotes. Wait.” She ran to her car and came back with a battery-operated lantern. “My brother uses this when he’s camping. If we’re going in, we should have real light.”
“You’re not going in. Go home, or wait here.”
It was too dark to see the look she gave me. I felt it, though. “Don’t tell me what to do. This is incredibly stupid, but if you’re going in, so am I. Let’s get this over with.” And when you got right down to it, there was no way I could stop her.
She led the way. We yanked on plywood sheets, hoping to find a loose one. A large sheet over a side entrance came away easily. “Maybe this is where Coach got in,” I said, realizing we might be retracing his steps. My spine tightened. “I still think you—”
“No.” She stepped through the doorway, holding up her lantern. A long corridor with faded, musty carpet and peeling wallpaper, elaborate chandeliers with ancient, lightless bulbs. Only a few spider webs, though, and no animal droppings, no trash anywhere in sight.
“Not as bad as I’d expected,” Graciana said. “It looks as if somebody’s been keeping this place clean. And nothing looks singed. The fire must’ve been put out before it reached this part of the building. You want to keep going?”
“For a few minutes. Let’s open some room doors.”
I tried the knob on the first one. Not locked—no reason it should be, when you thought about it. I opened the door to what had obviously once been a large suite. More musty carpet, more peeling wallpaper, a rusted bed frame, some odds and ends heaped in a corner, lots of dust. We opened several more doors and saw pretty much the same thing.
“So you think Nina planned to bring Paul here for their big night together?” Graciana said as we neared a corner. “I guess that makes sense. This isn’t exactly my idea of a romantic getaway, but it wouldn’t be safe for them to go to his home, or to hers. And he was probably afraid someone might see them at a motel. She’d kept this place strictly secret for years, but she thought she’d be graduating and leaving town soon. She might’ve figured she wouldn’t need Sherwood Forest anymore. Do you think she told him where they’d be going?”
“I don’t think she’d reveal her secret until she was sure he’d show up. She probably just said she’d found a safe place and told him to meet her on the bridge again Friday night.”
“Then they got into an argument,” Graciana said, “or he changed his mind and didn’t want anyone to know he’d considered sleeping with Nina. Carolyn would drop him, and people at school would laugh at him. Mr. Perfect Ericson wouldn’t want to be the subject of gossip. So he killed her. Is that how you think it happened?”
“Maybe. Or maybe Paul didn’t kill her after all. Maybe the killer is someone else, someone who wanted to avoid a scandal as much as he did.”
“Someone else who—you mean Dr. Lombardo?”
We turned the corner. “I mean Big Brother,” I said, and opened the door to the first room.
No musty carpet this time, no peeling wallpaper. The carpet had been pulled up and the hardwood floor beneath it buffed until it gleamed; the walls had been scraped clean and painted a soft, cool gray. A dou
ble bed with a dark blue spread and white throw pillows, and several pieces of furniture, all painted white—a small bureau, a narrow table pushed against the wall, a wooden chair. Nina might’ve salvaged these things from various places in the hotel, or found them at garage sales over the years. Either way, she’d created a simple, orderly refuge in the middle of all this ruin. I took a hard breath. How awful must Nina’s life have been, if she’d worked this hard to make a real home for herself?
I walked over to the table and switched on the electric lantern Nina had left there. She must’ve used the table as a desk. She’d left her book bag leaning against it, her purse tossed on top. I saw a notebook and several pens, along with a neat row of books propped against the wall. I peered at titles. “Look,” I said. “The Bell Jar. So maybe Marie’s right. Maybe somebody planted the other copy in Nina’s locker. Somebody who’d have access to a list of students’ combinations and could unlock the school library after hours.”
“That could be Dr. Lombardo,” Graciana said. She was holding up her lantern, looking at framed drawings on the walls—they looked like ones Marie had done. She pointed to something Nina had hung directly above the bed. “Or not. In fact, I think you’re right. I think it was Big Brother.”
I came over to see. A framed certificate with an elaborate border and fancy lettering—John E. Quinn, Outstanding Senior, Ridgecrest Senior High School. “What do you know,” I said. “He always had that on the wall behind his desk. When I was in his office last week, he had an old basketball picture there instead. I bet Nina stole the award on that last day. Remember? Ms. Quinn said her husband asked Nina to come to his office that afternoon.”
Graciana nodded slowly. “Supposedly because he’d noticed she seemed especially unstable. You think it was really for a different reason?”
“Yes,” I said, and turned to face her. “I think he might’ve been telling her to stay away from Paul.”
I could tell Graciana was thinking it over, trying to fit the things we knew into this new possibility. “Maybe,” she said, “Mr. Quinn had seen her flirting with Paul. Maybe he’d been spying on them, the way he was spying on us in the hall today.”
“The way he spies on everyone,” I said, “especially athletes. He keeps a close watch on us, always giving us advice, trying to make sure we do the right thing. Hell, he knows my weekly quiz scores, knows when I sneak out of a chemistry review session a few minutes early. I’ll bet he watches Paul even more closely.”
“I’m sure he does,” Graciana said. “After all, Paul’s his biggest success story. Basketball team captain, a sure bet for Outstanding Senior—he’s giving Mr. Quinn a way to relive his own glory days at Ridgecrest High. Quinn wouldn’t like it if he saw Paul hanging around with Nina.”
Just as he didn’t like it when he saw me hanging around with you, I thought, but didn’t say it. Graciana didn’t need to know Mr. Quinn considered her “the wrong kind of girl.” “He probably thought that any scandal involving Paul would reflect on him,” I said, “just as he was about to become principal.”
Graciana smiled grimly. “I guess you were right when you said Big Brother was a reference to 1984. Anyway, if he told Nina to stay away from Paul, I bet she defied him. She defied everyone. And Mr. Quinn doesn’t like it when people defy him.”
“No, he doesn’t.” I remembered how his temper had flared whenever I’d put up even a little resistance about anything. “And then—I don’t know. Maybe he stepped out of the office for a minute, and she grabbed the certificate and put it into her book bag. She’d told Marie she planned to take a picture of Paul in her bed and post it on the Internet. Maybe she decided it’d be fun to get the certificate into the picture. That sounds like her sense of humor.”
Graciana gazed at the certificate again, scrunching up her forehead. “So what did he do when he noticed his certificate was missing? How did he end up at the bridge an hour or so later? What happened when he got there?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
But I could picture some possibilities. Nina heading for Sherwood Forest, changing her top, grinning to herself as she hung the certificate on the wall before going to the bridge to meet Paul. Mr. Quinn pacing around his office, cursing, wondering what Nina had in store for the certificate, desperate to get things under control. Paul smiling as he left school, feeling excited and a little nervous, getting into his car and heading for the nature preserve. And then—then it got murkier. Maybe Mr. Quinn followed Paul to the bridge. Maybe he stayed out of sight and listened to Paul and Nina make plans, or maybe he didn’t get to the bridge until Paul was gone, until Nina was sending that first, triumphant text message. Maybe. As I’d told Graciana, I didn’t know.
“We’ll probably never know—not for sure.” Graciana said.
I nodded. “One way or another, they must have all ended up at the bridge, or near it. Paul must have left first. Then Mr. Quinn confronted Nina, and they probably got into an argument. Then—well.” I paused. “Then I guess he killed her.”
I could picture this part, too. The two of them standing on the bridge, Mr. Quinn red-faced and earnest, ranting at her, trying to reason with her, demanding his certificate back, insisting that she stay away from Paul. Then Nina smirked. Or she laughed in his face or said something outrageous. Maybe he struck out blindly, hitting her harder than he meant to. Maybe she fell and hit her head, and he threw her over the bridge to hide what he’d done. Or he grabbed her without thinking, throwing her over just to shut her up.
Or something like that. I could imagine other possibilities, too. All bad.
Graciana put her hand on my arm. “I know. It hardly seems possible. He doesn’t seem like a violent person. I bet he didn’t plan it. I bet it happened in a moment, before he realized what he was doing. When he did realize it, I’m sure he was horrified.”
“And scared.” I pulled back from the images that had grown so strong in my mind. There’s more, I reminded myself. Try to figure out the rest of it. “So he tried to cover up. Nina must’ve dropped her cell phone. He picked it up and went back to school to give himself an alibi. He went to the Scenes from Shakespeare rehearsal to make sure people saw him. He called a psychologist to ask for advice about Nina, to make it look like he thought she was still alive.”
“And I’m sure he said plenty to bolster the suicide theory,” Graciana said. “Then, at some point, after people had seen him, he sent the second text message. That message sounds like something an adult would write, more than anything either Nina or Paul would.”
“Or Ted Ramsey,” I agreed. “And after school closed, Mr. Quinn got a copy of The Bell Jar from the library and put it in Nina’s locker. That sounds like him. It’s a complicated cover-up, and he complicates everything.” I thought of his attempt to talk about the grieving process, the games he’d made up for the basketball reunion, the schedule he’d made me fill out. Talk about someone who couldn’t keep something simple.
“It all fits,” Graciana said. “But can we prove it? And do we have anything to link Mr. Quinn to Bobby Davis?”
“Well, Paul must’ve told Mr. Quinn where I run laps, and Quinn must’ve told Davis. That’s a link.”
Graciana frowned. “An awfully indirect one. And it seems to implicate Paul more than Quinn.”
“Then how about this? Mr. Quinn was a guidance counselor when Jefferson Davis Roberts went to Ridgecrest High, and Roberts was an athlete with Olympic potential. The Mr. Quinn we know would’ve taken a huge interest in him. During his sophomore year, Roberts was an easy target for bullies. The next fall, he beat one of those bullies almost to death. I’m betting that over the summer, someone taught him how to defend himself.”
“And Quinn has a black belt.” Graciana’s eyes widened. “God, Matt. I bet you’re right. Quinn taught him martial arts, and that changed his life. Didn’t Davis say something about paying off a debt when he attacked you this morning?”
I nodded. “Mr. Quinn might’ve also helped him avoid the police and get to Richmond, might’ve given him money. It’d be hard for a kid to disappear like that without help. I’ve had some thoughts about Coach, too, but let’s get out of here. We can go to our cars and call 911.”
“Good idea.” Graciana hunched her shoulders together. “This place gives me the creeps.” She opened the door and started down the darkened hall.
I took a moment to glance into the bathroom. Camp toilet, large jugs of water, towels, soap—she’d made this place into a refuge, all right, gotten everything all set up. Poor Nina, I thought, and stepped into the hallway.
That’s when I heard Graciana cry out. I pointed my flashlight ahead to see Mr. Quinn grab Graciana’s arm and yank her in front of him, hooking his left arm around her neck. The lantern fell from her hand and landed with its beam aimed straight at them. For a long moment, he stood there holding onto her, his eyes darting. Then he took a gun out of his jacket pocket and pointed it at me.
I’d practiced gun defenses, lots of times. But this was a real gun. I drew my breath in, staring at it. Still, the practice with fake guns made a difference. A few weeks ago, I would’ve felt helpless.
“Stay calm,” Mr. Quinn said. “Matt, Graciana, I want you both to stay calm.” He was holding a gun on me, but he still sounded like a guidance counselor. It was like he was telling us not to freak out about SATs.
Slowly, Graciana raised her hands. She caught my eye, and I raised my hands, too. The ready position, I thought. She remembers. She’s not panicking, and she knows how to get out of this. I have to be ready.
“We’ll stay calm,” I said. He’s a black belt, I reminded myself. He’s probably rusty, but he knows more than I do. Plus he’s strong, and he’s fast. I’ve seen him play basketball.
“That’s good,” he said. “Matt, put your flashlight on the floor. Slowly.”