Ray Elkins mystery - 02 - Color Tour

by Aaron Stander

  “How about addresses?”

  “I’ll ask Helen; she’ll be able to pull that info from the alumni database. I’ve found the incident report that Ashleigh completed at the time. Do you want a copy?”

  “Please. What does it contain?”

  “About what I’ve told you. It’s got the names of the students involved in the accident, and the date, time, and extent of injuries— the usual bureaucratic questions and answers.”

  “But no mention of her kayak being damaged?”

  “No, that wasn’t part of it.”

  Ray, lost in thought, refilled Sarah’s wine glass without asking if she wanted more.

  “Ask a woman up to your house and then you try to get her drunk,” she kidded.

  Ray looked abashed. “Sorry. I was just trying to be a good host. Have some more food, that will help. And I can always give you a Breathalyzer test to make sure you’re below the legal limit before I allow you to drive home,” he said with a wry smile.

  “And I have to stay here until I reach the… what a clever man you are.” She looked at her watch. “This has been wonderful, thank you. But I really must be going. Ashleigh’s funeral is tomorrow, and I’ve got a very early morning. Let me help you get things picked up.”

  “That’s no problem, I can take… ” Ray wasn’t able to complete his sentence. Sarah was up and carrying things to the kitchen. Working together they had everything in order in a few minutes.

  “Tomorrow, would it be appropriate for me to attend the funeral?” Ray asked.

  “No problem,” she answered. “But you might want to arrive early. We anticipate quite a crowd.”

  “What time should I be there?”

  “The funeral is scheduled for eleven o’clock. I think you should be there by 10:40.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” responded Ray as he helped Sarah with her coat. He followed her to the door where she started to offer her hand and then gave Ray a quick, tentative hug. “Thank you for the nice evening,” she said as she departed. Ray stood at the door and watched her taillights disappear down the drive.

  After her departure Ray did a final sweep of the kitchen, wiping the counters and starting the dishwasher, and then went to his study. He retrieved his journal and pen from his desk and stood for a few minutes looking out at the lights of the village.

  In the years he had been keeping a journal, he had endeavored to separate his personal life from his professional duties, but that wasn’t always possible. And this night his focus was on the murder investigation. After several pages his focus shifted to Sarah James. Had she told him everything about her relationship with Ashleigh and Warrington? He also wondered if there was any possibility that she might be involved in these murders. And finally he noted the perfume she was wearing; he became aware of it during their brief embrace. It was not a scent that he recognized, not that his knowledge of fragrances was particularly extensive. It was very subtle and pleasant. In his last few sentences he wondered if she was the person she represented herself to be.

  26

  The morning of Ashleigh’s funeral, Ray found Sarah James standing outside near the front of the chapel. “Looks like you’ve got a full house,” he observed looking at the clumps of people on the sidewalks and lawn. “Who are all these people?” “The students and staff, many alums and parents. And I think there might be quite a few people from the community. Ashleigh had a lot of friends.”

  “How are you going to get everyone in?”

  “We’re not. We can only squeeze in about 200, which is far more than this building was originally intended to hold. We’ve arranged a second seating area in the Kiva, our auditorium-like building. There’s a big screen projection system there. Once the chapel is filled, the overflow will be escorted over. And then we’re going to serve a buffet lunch in the dining hall. We have some more tables set up on the lawn. We’re lucky it’s a beautiful day.”

  “You did all the organizing?”

  “Yes, but I had a lot of help getting things in place. Everyone’s making an extra effort.” She paused and looked at Ray. “That’s one of the special things about working here. With a few exceptions, it’s a real community.”

  “The cost, the school is handling… ?”

  “Well, we were. But Ashleigh’s attorney instructed us to forward all the bills to him; he will take care of them. In fact, he was the one who suggested the lunch, told me to spend as much as necessary to make this a special occasion. He said he planned to attend. I hope he identifies himself.”

  “What’s his name? I would like to talk to him.”

  “Furman Gellhorn. Would you like his phone number and e-mail address? The firm is in Chicago.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Tell me about the chapel,” Ray said as he studied the exterior.

  “It was built soon after the main house. The first Mrs. Howard liked the idea of a family chapel. But I’ve heard the thing that really pushed the project was the marriage of their only daughter, Consuelo. Wonderful name.”

  “Yes,” agreed Ray. “Good period name.”

  “The chapel was built large enough for the group they anticipated would come up from Chicago for the wedding. The interior was modeled after a medieval chapel; all the materials were fabricated in England and shipped here for assembly. English masons and carpenters were brought over for the construction. Can you imagine the expense?”

  “You certainly are knowledgeable about the school’s history.”

  “I give tours to prospective students and their parents. In order to answer their questions, I’ve done a lot of research. I’ve looked at everything in print and talked to the old-timers. I’m a real history buff, so this has been a lot of fun.”

  “Going back to Consuelo, I thought the couple had only one child. I had never heard of her… Consuelo.”

  “She was the eldest child, seven or eight years older than her brother,” continued Sarah, “and she died before her wedding.

  I’ve heard the story two ways, one was an auto accident, and the other involved a trolley—a detail I need to research. Happened in Chicago weeks before the wedding. And the story goes that Consuelo’s mother never entered the chapel after her daughter’s death,” she said, motioning toward the lovely Gothic building.

  “Sad story. But the building was maintained as a chapel?”

  “No. My understanding is that it was used for years as sort of a storage building. Mrs. Howard had the chapel cleaned out and returned to its original condition when she started the school. She was Episcopalian, as was the rest of the Howard family, and had a retired Episcopalian priest in residence here during Leiston’s first few years. I think he also taught religious studies. After he left, she started having non-denominational services on Sunday, and that tradition has continued up to the present.”

  “Is anyone from Ashleigh’s family going to be here?” Ray asked.

  Sarah’s administrative tone faded as a look of sadness washed across her face. “I couldn’t find anyone, not anyone. It was a very small family and with Ashleigh’s death, well, it’s sort of the end of the line.” She paused briefly. “I’ve arranged an Episcopalian service; Ashleigh listed that as her religious preference on her employment application, although I can’t remember her ever expressing any interest in religion.”

  The two heavy oak doors were pushed open from the inside and the crowd started to move forward. Ray followed Sarah into

  the chapel. She led Ray across the vestibule and through a small, partially hidden doorway in the oak-paneled interior. They climbed a narrow stone stairway spiraled up to the organ loft. A thick rope, suspended in steel loops attached to the masonry, served as the handrail. They emerged in an alcove below the roofline. The organist, a slight wiry man, nodded to them as his fingers and feet produced a complex piece of counterpoint. Ray and Sarah settled on a small wooden bench. Their position afforded an excellent view of most of the chapel.

  Sarah watched Ray carefully study the crowd. “What are you lo
oking for?” she asked.

  Ray brought his hands in front of him in a prayerful gesture, fingertips touching, indicating a consideration of her question rather than an act of religiosity. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It would be nice to see something that might serve as a clue to finding the murderer. But maybe I just need to be here; I need to keep the human aspects of this crime at the forefront of my thinking.” Ray surveyed the people filing into the church, filling the dark-oak pews: teenagers, some accompanied by adults; faculty and staff members; people from the community. He studied their faces as they turned from the aisles and moved into the pews. The sorrow and loss he observed, especially on the faces of the Leiston students, was palpable.

  The service started, high Episcopalian, replete with incense, a sanctus bell, and the kissing of the Bible. It reminded Ray of the time he was in London and slipped into a funeral at St. Paul’s in an attempt to get the full effect of a Christopher Wren church. Before beginning the service the celebrant—a tall man with a deep resonant voice who identified himself to the mourners as Father Murphy—spoke to the congregation.

  His comments were brief and instructional in tone, clearly crafted to help the students through this ordeal. He explained that funeral rites and traditions had evolved to comfort the living, to help them accept the mystery of death, and to give them a way to express their sorrow. Next he talked about the importance of making a final farewell and giving thanks for a person’s life. And then he began: “O God of grace and glory, we remember before you this day our sister Ashleigh. We thank you for giving her to us, to her students and friends, to know and to love as a companion on our earthly pilgrimage. In your boundless compassion, console us who mourn. Give us faith to see in death the gate of eternal life, so that in quiet confidence we may continue our course on earth, until, by your call, we are reunited with those who have gone before; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  From time to time, as the service moved forward, Sarah would hold a hymnal or the Book of Common Prayer between them, turning to the appropriate pages. And, crowded together on the little bench, he became more aware of her, the sound of her voice in song and prayer, her gentle sobbing from time to time, and the subtle scent of her perfume. It was then the ghost reappeared. Ray thought about Ashleigh’s mother, Allison, and their brief acquaintance almost thirty years before. If she had lived, he thought, she’d be in this chapel, the central mourner. He was seized by almost overwhelming sadness.

  The celebrant continued: “Father of all, we pray to you for Ashleigh and for all those whom we love but see no longer. Grant to them eternal rest. Let light perpetual shine upon them. May his soul and the souls of all the departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.”

  The Eucharist was celebrated; a small number of students and adults came forward to take communion, and then, one by one, Father Murphy introduced three speakers to pay homage to Ashleigh’s life.

  Ian Warrington spoke first. He noted the many contributions Ashleigh had made to Leiston School in her short tenure there. Ray thought it was a wonderful chronology of her accomplishments, but he was surprised Warrington didn’t comment on Ashleigh as a person.

  Warrington was followed by a current Leiston student. She explained, “I first met Ms. Allen three years ago when I was a freshman. I never liked science before I had her, she taught me to love it. But more importantly, she helped me with a lifelong problem. I’ve always had a bad stutter,” she said, beginning to sob. She stood and took several deep breaths. Under control again, she continued, “With great kindness, through countless hours during tutorials, she helped me overcome this problem. Her love and attention changed my life.”

  An erect, stately woman with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a bun followed her to the podium. She began, “I was a student here in the early days of Leiston School. During those years my life was changed, forever made better, by an extraordinary woman and educator, Gwendolyn Howard, Ashleigh Allen’s great-aunt. When my son matriculated here in his junior year, I was delighted to learn Mrs. Howard’s niece, Ashleigh, had just joined the faculty. My son Jack and I will always give thanks for her enormous kindness and her great skill. She taught Jack how to dream and helped him develop the skills and the confidence he needed to follow his dreams. Talking with other parents over the last few years and again here today, I am reminded how Ashleigh Allen worked her special magic with so many young people. Her loss is beyond comprehension. Our only comfort is in celebrating the special joy she gave to so many, joy that will stay with them throughout their lives.”

  Father Murphy requested an extended moment of silence, and then invited others to talk about Ashleigh. A mixture of people came forward—students, alumni, and members of the Leiston community—and shared memories about Ashleigh and the special friendship or kindness she had extended to them. Ray felt his eyes well up several times.

  Finally, Father Murphy reminded the mourners that a lunch would follow. He gave the benediction, and the service was over. Ray remained seated and watched the mourners leave. Sarah stayed at his side. Finally she rose, saying, “I’d better check on how things are going.”

  Ray followed her down the stairs. They stood in front of the chapel and watched the crowd move along the path toward the dining hall.

  “Lunch?” Sarah asked.

  “No, I better get back to the office.” He held her hand for a long moment. “Thank you for the help. I’m glad I did this.” Ray stood and watched her move away with the crowd.

  He thought about this tragedy, about how the justice system can impose vengeance but can never undo effects of great evil.

  27

  Ray was lost in thought, still holding Sarah in his gaze, when a resonant male voice called his name, “Sheriff Elkins?” Ray turned. A tall, elderly man, with steel-gray hair was extending his hand. “Yes,” Ray responded, taking the hand. He studied the man closely; he guessed him to be in his middle to late seventies.

  “I’m Furman Gellhorn––Ickles, Gellhorn, Jeffers, and Arendt. We’re a Chicago firm. I administered Ashleigh Allen’s trust fund and now, unhappily, I am the executor of her estate. Could I have a word?” He motioned toward a bench at the side of the walk near the front of the chapel facing the sun. The crowd had moved toward the dining hall and the two men were alone.

  “How long did you know Ms. Allen?” Ray asked.

  “It’s been quite a number of years.” Gellhorn removed his gold-rimmed glasses and polished them with a pressed handkerchief. “Her aunt, Gwendolyn Howard, used to bring Ashleigh with her to our offices; she was only a schoolgirl then. I continued to work with Ashleigh after she came of age. She was a bright, charming young woman, but she had little interest in money, so we continued to look after her financial affairs after she came of age.” “When did you last see her?” Ray asked.

  “Let me think. It was June, late June after the end of the academic year here at Leiston. Ashleigh was on her way out of the country. She was with David Dowd; that was the first and only time I met the young man. They were on their way to Greenland, of all places, to do some kayaking.”

  “Was her visit social?” Ray asked.

  “Well, it had a social aspect, we always set up our appointments so we could have lunch together. She was such a joy to be with. I’d try to find an interesting restaurant, one she hadn’t been to before. This goes way back to the days when she’d accompany Mrs. Howard.

  “But our meeting last spring was more than just social. I had been working on putting a new trust in place for Ashleigh. It’s very hard to get young people to think about the possibility that they, well, might not live to a ripe old age. And given that Ashleigh had quite a bit of money, I thought it prudent that she have a plan in place just in case the unthinkable happened. This is difficult to do with people in their fifties and sixties, and almost impossible with someone of Ashleigh’s age.”

  “But Ashleigh… ”

  “Yes, she had a good head on her shoulders. She was
very clear on how her assets should be disposed of.” Gellhorn pointed to a crowd mingling near and moving into the dining hall. “Unfortunately she never signed the papers—we were scheduled to meet again during the holiday break. But in lieu of any legal beneficiaries, we’re moving ahead with her wishes for disposal of the estate. The first thing I was supposed to be concerned with was throwing a good party. I’m not sure that feeding people well in a school cafeteria would ever qualify as a good party. But given the time constraints, it’s the best I could do.”

  “And after the party,” asked Ray, “who are Ashleigh’s beneficiaries?

  “A variety of environmental groups, a few women’s organizations, and the endowment fund here at the school.”

  “Any individuals, family members, anything like that?” Ray asked.

  “No individual bequeaths, and I knew of no blood relatives,” Gellhorn stopped for a second and rethought his statement. “That’s not quite true, there might be a father out there somewhere.”

  “Your tone suggests there is something more to this story.”

  “Well there is, and that’s why I wanted to talk to you.” Gellhorn paused and looked at Ray, his manner tentative.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Well, this isn’t about the father—Ashleigh was still searching for her biological father,” Gellhorn said. “I’ve been contacted by someone up here, a member of the faculty, who says he’s a second cousin of Ashleigh’s and is interested in the contents of the will. I don’t know whether or not the individual has accurately represented the familial relationship; I have a very skilled woman, one of our junior people, researching his claimed relationship.”

  “And who, might I ask, is making these inquiries?” asked Ray.

  “I’ve learned that he’s a faculty member here, Alan Quertermous. Interestingly enough, years ago we used to look after his father’s legal affairs. Are you familiar with Mr. Quertermous?”