Scandal in Fair Haven

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Scandal in Fair Haven Page 11

by Carolyn G. Hart


  Then swift and short: "Su­re, Pa­ulie. I'll me­et you at the lib­rary. At se­ven. Don't for­get the play."

  The li­ne went de­ad.

  Slowly, I rep­la­ced the re­ce­iver. Se­ven o'clock. That wo­uld gi­ve me plenty of ti­me to get back to King's Row Ro­ad for the ne­ig­h­bor­ho­od me­eting Cheryl had men­ti­oned. But I was just as in­te­res­ted in me­eting Bri­git. "Don't for­get

  the play." An ar­t­ful to­uch. Ap­pa­rently Bri­git, too, was a glib li­ar. Li­ke her step­fat­her. But many te­ena­gers ha­ve sec­ret li­ves.

  Sometimes the sec­rets are in­no­cent.

  Sometimes they are not.

  I chec­ked the pho­ne bo­ok. One Fa­ir Ha­ven lib­rary. I cal­led for di­rec­ti­ons. I had ti­me for a qu­ick sup­per and a sho­wer.

  It's swe­aty work, cle­aning up af­ter a mur­de­rer.

  Clean and freshly dres­sed, I car­ri­ed the pla­te of Stro­ga-noff and so­me iced tea in­to the ga­me ro­om. It wasn't that I was trying to ma­ke myself com­p­le­tely at ho­me. I in­ten­ded to work whi­le I ate.

  I slip­ped in the vi­deo en­tit­led Bri­gifs Swe­et 16.

  I im­me­di­ately had to turn down the so­und. The band pla­yed mu­sic I al­ways ma­ke it a po­int to avo­id on my ra­dio at a de­ci­bel le­vel which must ha­ve ma­de the ne­ig­h­bor­ho­od dogs howl.

  A pa­tio party: The girls and wo­men in pretty sum­mer frocks, the boys and men in slacks and sport co­ats, Japa­ne­se lan­terns in pink and yel­low, car­na­ti­on-la­den bo­wers, tab­le cen­ter­pi­eces of hur­ri­ca­ne lamps wre­at­hed with pink or­gandy bows, and lo­ud, lo­ud mu­sic.

  "My God." I sa­id it out lo­ud, the shock was so gre­at- Patty Kay with a bul­ging fa­ce, do­ub­le chins, and a bo­red, pe­evish ex­p­res­si­on. Then I blin­ked and re­ali­zed my mis­ta­ke as slim, dark-ha­ired, vi­va­ci­o­us Patty Kay gre­eted the wo­man who was her he­avy dop­pel­gan­ger. The re­sem­b­lan­ce was stri­king. The sa­me an­gu­lar fa­ce, mo­bi­le mo­uth, gre­en eyes. What a dif­fe­ren­ce forty po­unds and an at­ti­tu­de ma­de.

  "Hi, sis." Pa­me­la Gut­h­rie of­fe­red a car­mi­ned che­ek.

  The sis­ters lightly em­b­ra­ced, tur­ned away to talk to ot­hers.

  Body lan­gu­age is just that. It was evi­dent in the fa­ces of the sis­ters, in the­ir lack of ani­ma­ti­on, in the­ir ba­rely con­ce­aled in­dif­fe­ren­ce. The­se sib­lings we­ren't re­mo­tely in­te­res­ted in each ot­her. I didn't sen­se hos­ti­lity so much as di­sen­ga­ge­ment.

  It was the­ir only con­tact on the bir­t­h­day vi­deo.

  Patty Kay was a gra­ci­o­us hos­tess, warm, wel­co­ming, go­od-hu­mo­red. She smo­othly mo­ved from per­son to per­son with re­al in­te­rest. She was ne­ver per­fun­c­tory. Cra­ig was a bet­ter host than I wo­uld ha­ve ex­pec­ted, qu­ick to ref­resh a drink or ma­ke an in­t­ro­duc­ti­on.

  It was easy to spot the ten­nis chums and the­ir hus­bands. Bro­oke For­rest was gor­ge­o­us in a hi­bis­cus-pat­ter­ned sa­rong, but one very mo­destly cut. I no­ti­ced that she dan­ced only with her hus­band. Da­vid, wasn't that his na­me? I co­uld see why Patty Kay te­ased. Da­vid For­rest had a Mr. Roc­hes­ter-harsh fa­ce, and his smi­le ne­ver re­ac­hed his cold gray eyes.

  I re­cog­ni­zed anot­her ten­nis pla­yer, chunky Edith. She kept pus­hing back her red­dish curls as if she we­re hot. As al­ways, she smi­led. But her smi­le se­emed auto­ma­tic. I had the dis­tinct fe­eling Edith wasn't enj­oying her­self. Oc­ca­si­onal­ly, she dan­ced with a stocky, bal­ding man, but he spent most of the eve­ning but­ton­ho­ling ot­her men to talk ear­nestly. He ne­ver se­emed to no­ti­ce how qu­ickly they mo­ved away. Ex­cept for Cra­ig, a go­od host. At one po­int, he clap­ped Edith's hus­band on the back and as­ked, "How's yo­ur golf ga­me, Ed?"

  Small, fe­isty Gi­na Ab­bott didn't ap­pe­ar to ha­ve an es­cort. She was all over the party, re­fil­ling a punch bowl, ur­ging yo­ung pe­op­le to dan­ce, hol­ding a dis­car­ded be­ach to­wel li­ke a ma­ta­dor's ca­pe as she re­co­un­ted a story that

  evoked pe­als of la­ug­h­ter. At one po­int, Gi­na sho­o­ed yo­ung Dan For­rest to the dan­ce flo­or with an eager blond girl who lo­oked up at Dan with ado­ring eyes des­pi­te his scar­cely mas­ked bo­re­dom.

  Cameras film wit­ho­ut pre­j­udi­ce. This vi­deo ca­ught so many un­gu­ar­ded mo­ments: Bro­oke's pro­ud smi­le as she wat­c­hed her son on the dan­ce flo­or, Da­vid For­rest's down-tur­ned mo­uth as he ob­ser­ved them both, the im­mo­bi­lity oi Patty Kay's fa­ce as Cra­ig whir­led by with a de­li­ri­o­usly happy Bri­git-no bra­ces he­re, so why didn't her mot­hei ha­ve a mo­re re­cent pic­tu­re in her pur­se?-Edith's ir­ri­ta­ti­on as she shrug­ged away a stocky te­ena­ge girl tug­ging on hei sle­eve, Gi­na's al­most fran­tic pur­su­it of la­ug­h­ter.

  1 felt 1 was se­e­ing the me­rest sur­fa­ce of many tan­g­led re­la­ti­on­s­hips.

  I re­ran it and saw mo­re than I'd no­ti­ced the first ti­me: A che­er­ful red-ha­ired boy kept trying to in­te­rest the blond girl who lo­oked so ado­ringly at Dan, but he didn't ha­ve any luck.

  At his fat­her's nod, Dan was qu­ick to bring a pla­te to his mot­her and to help gat­her up dis­car­ded wrap­ping pa­per from the pre­sents.

  The red- haired, frec­k­led girl, whom Edith had shrug­ged away, bub­bled with hap­pi­ness thro­ug­ho­ut the party. The girl's bro­ad, frec­k­led fa­ce was ec­s­ta­tic when Bri­git ma­na­ged to blow out a fi­nal stub­born can­d­le.

  The blond girl who'd dan­ced so hap­pily with Dan was al­ways at his el­bow des­pi­te his in­dif­fe­ren­ce.

  Near the party's end, Gi­na, her sho­ul­ders dro­oping, sta­red ble­akly to­ward the wo­ods, then, whir­ling abo­ut at Bro­oke's call, on­ce aga­in slip­ped in­to her fre­ne­tic party per­so­na­lity.

  In the fi­nal fra­me, Patty Kay swept her da­ug­h­ter in­to a tight em­b­ra­ce.

  But Bri­git was lo­oking over her mot­her's sho­ul­der in­to the eyes of her mot­her's se­cond hus­band. It wasn't a lo­ok her mot­her wo­uld ha­ve li­ked.

  And Cra­ig's fa­ce?

  It ga­ve no in­k­ling that he re­ali­zed his at­trac­ti­on for the te­ena­ger.

  How co­uld he ha­ve mis­sed it?

  The pub­lic lib­rary ref­lec­ted the pros­pe­rity of Fa­ir Ha­ven, spraw­ling and be­a­uti­ful­ly ma­in­ta­ined, lots of glass, an adj­acent play­g­ro­und, and a small pond rim­med with ben­c­hes.

  I ar­ri­ved early. Of co­ur­se. Is the­re any re­por­ter who isn't com­pul­si­ve abo­ut be­ing on ti­me?

  This lib­rary had on-li­ne ca­pa­bi­li­ti­es. I chec­ked the lo­cal me­dia, cal­ling up the fi­le on Patty Kay Pren­tiss Pi­er­ce Mat­thews. Lots of en­t­ri­es. It was cle­ar that Patty Kay had be­en a po­wer in Fa­ir Ha­ven's so­ci­al and ci­vic li­fe. It was in­te­res­ting that only ra­rely was her sis­ter, Pa­me­la Pren­tiss Gut­h­rie, men­ti­oned. In fact, I ca­me upon Pa­me­la's na­me only when she mar­ri­ed and when she was lis­ted as a sur­vi­vor in her gran­d­pa­rents' and pa­rents' obi­tu­ari­es. Two sis­ters who didn't sing the sa­me song.

  I had two sto­ri­es on Patty Kay prin­ted out. The se­cond was pay dirt all the way. I scan­ned it, but it was ne­aring se­ven o'clock, so I tuc­ked it in my pur­se for la­ter study.

  I wat­c­hed the ma­in en­t­ran­ce. I knew, of co­ur­se, what Bri­git lo­oked li­ke from the vi­deo, but I kept a sharp eye. The lib­rary was full of te­ena­gers co­ming and go­ing, so­me stud­ying, so­me pur­su­ing ot­her in­te­rests. They ap­pe­ared prac­ti­cal­ly in­ter­c­han­ge­ab­le, and it wasn't the big-city grun­ge lo­ok. Not in Fa­ir Ha­ven. The­se te­ens lo­oked-as they we­re-li­ke yo­ung rep­li­cas of the co­untry club set. All


  wore but­ton-down shirts and slacks, cot­ton wra­pa­ro­und skirts or flo­ral print cot­ton pants and cot­ton pul­lo­ver po­los. The only com­mon link to ever­y­day USA te­en cul­tu­re we­re the odd ha­ir­s­t­y­les so po­pu­lar now, many of the boys with the­ir ha­ir cut in la­yers, the girls with ha­ir that lo­oked as tho­ugh it had un­der­go­ne an un­for­tu­na­te con­f­ron­ta­ti­on with an elec­t­ric cir­cu­it.

  Brigit's cos­tu­me was de ri­gu­e­ur. The da­zed lo­ok in the te­en's red­de­ned eyes was not.

  I wal­ked to­ward her and softly cal­led her na­me.

  She had a new ha­ir­s­t­y­le sin­ce the vi­deo. Her un­re­mar­kab­le blon­dish ha­ir now friz­zed aro­und her fa­ce li­ke co­iled wi­res, ma­king her nar­row fe­atu­res se­em even mo­re wa­if­li­ke. Her skin was so fa­ir, the red-rim­med eyes jum­ped out at you.

  "Mrs. Col­lins?" Her vo­ice had mo­re re­so­nan­ce in per­son than on the te­lep­ho­ne. At my nod, she glan­ced wa­rily aro­und. Then she sa­id swiftly, "Let's go out­si­de. I see Mrs. Gal­lo­way. Euro­pe­an his­tory."

  I to­ok that as an el­lip­ti­cal iden­ti­fi­ca­ti­on of a te­ac­her.

  Privacy su­ited me too.

  We wal­ked hal­f­way aro­und the pond to a wo­oden bench that fa­ced the lib­rary en­t­ran­ce. The lights from the lib­rary we­re ref­lec­ted in the pond. It was co­ol eno­ugh out­si­de to ma­ke my swe­ater wel­co­me.

  "Just in ca­se Lo­u­ise co­mes." Her vo­ice oozed dis­da­in.

  I had sen­se eno­ugh not to ask who Lo­u­ise was. Af­ter all, as Cra­ig's aunt I co­uld be ex­pec­ted to be fa­mi­li­ar with most fa­mily na­mes. I gu­es­sed Lo­u­ise must be Bri­git's step­mot­her.

  "Does she do that a lot? Fol­low you aro­und?"

  She lo­oked at me sharply, but I'd kept my vo­ice no­nj­ud­g­men­tal.

  "Craig says I ima­gi­ne it. He says it's a small town, for chris­sa­kes, and not to ta­ke ever­y­t­hing per­so­nal­ly."

  I co­uld he­ar the ec­ho of his vo­ice in hers.

  She be­gan to cry, te­ars rol­ling down her thin che­eks.

  "Crying won't help Cra­ig."

  At that, she rub­bed the sle­eve of her sporty jac­ket ac­ross her fa­ce. She to­ok a de­ep bre­ath. "I know. But I can't stand it if an­y­t­hing hap­pens to him. I lo­ve him so much."

  And not, ob­vi­o­usly from her to­ne, in a way ap­prop­ri­ate for a step­fat­her. This was what I'd fe­ared. If the po­li­ce cot­to­ned on­to this lit­tle fa­mily com­p­li­ca­ti­on…

  I might as well know the worst.

  "How do­es Cra­ig fe­el abo­ut you?" What had he se­en? A cu­te lit­tle girl with a crush on him? Or a sexy nymphet? And, mo­re im­por­tant, how had he res­pon­ded?

  Brigit lif­ted her hands to her che­eks. Her who­le fa­ce was tran­s­for­med, and I had a bri­ef, tan­ta­li­zing glim­p­se of the wo­man she wo­uld be. "He kis­sed me. Just on my che­ek. But if Mot­her hadn't be­en the­re, I know-" She bro­ke off. She hug­ged her arms tightly to her slen­der body.

  Was this her dre­am alo­ne? Or had she aro­used him too? Per­haps the truth of it didn't mat­ter. What mat­te­red was the girl's per­cep­ti­on.

  "Did yo­ur mot­her know how you fe­el abo­ut Cra­ig?"

  She trem­b­led. Her light blue eyes bla­zed with an un-chil­d­li­ke fury. "She la­ug­hed at me. She la­ug­hed at me."

  I re­mem­be­red that moc­king who­op of la­ug­h­ter in the vi­deo. Yes, I co­uld be­li­eve it. Patty Kay ma­de a joke of al­most ever­y­t­hing.

  But the­re's not­hing funny abo­ut first lo­ve. Re­qu­ited or un­re­qu­ited. Ap­prop­ri­ate or silly. The­re is an ele­men­tal star­k­ness to a first pas­si­on that la­ter, mo­re ex­pe­ri­en­ced lo­ves will ne­ver pos­sess.

  Remembered an­ger-God, still vi­vid, li­ving an­ger-

  thickened Bri­git's yo­ung vo­ice. "She wan­ted to send me away. She sa­id I was ma­king a fo­ol of myself and em­bar­ras­sing Cra­ig. She sa­id"-the girl swal­lo­wed mi­se­rably- "she sa­id Cra­ig tho­ught I sho­uld go away too. I co­uld ha­ve kil­led her!"

  1 sa­id not­hing.

  The pas­si­ona­te, he­ar­t­b­re­aking words pul­sed in the dusky si­len­ce.

  Blues eyes brim­med over with sud­den te­ars. "But I didn't. You don't think… you can't think…"

  I avo­ided that. "You're up­set," I sa­id so­ot­hingly.

  Brigit's fa­ce was ab­ruptly so yo­ung, so stric­ken. She pres­sed her hands hard aga­inst her eyes, but the te­ars stre­amed down her che­eks.

  I fo­und a tis­sue in my pur­se, han­ded it to her.

  "Mother… oh, Mot­her…"

  "I'm sorry, Bri­git. So sorry."

  She scrub­bed at her fa­ce, tri­ed to stif­le the lit­tle sob­bing hic­cups.

  But I won­de­red abo­ut Bri­git. Yes, she was crying for her mot­her, but per­haps crying for mo­re than her loss. In fact, Bri­git might ha­ve the best of all pos­sib­le re­asons to be­li­eve in Cra­ig's in­no­cen­ce.

  Brigit wo­uld know whe­re Cra­ig's gun was kept. She wo­uld know how to call the bo­ok­s­to­re and ar­ran­ge for him to co­me ho­me.

  Why wo­uld she in­vol­ve him?

  She lo­ved Cra­ig, didn't she?

  Had she be­li­eved Patty Kay's ta­unt? Did Bri­git think that Cra­ig, too, wan­ted to send her away? Had scor­ned lo­ve tur­ned ugly?

  But now she was sob­bing be­ca­use her mot­her was de­ad and dis­t­ra­ught be­ca­use Cra­ig had be­en ja­iled.

  No one ever sa­id hu­man de­si­res and emo­ti­ons co­uld be

  totted up li­ke arit­h­me­tic sums. Any kind of mix was pos­sib­le.

  "No." Her he­ad jer­ked up. "No. I didn't do it. I wo­uldn't hurt Mot­her. I wo­uldn't. And I know Cra­ig didn't. Lis­ten." She re­ac­hed out, her rin­gers clam­ped on my arm. Her words tum­b­led out fe­ve­rishly. "I can help you find out what hap­pe­ned. I know that Mot­her and Aunt Pam we­re mad at each ot­her. Re­al­ly mad. And so­met­hing must ha­ve hap­pe­ned at scho­ol Fri­day, be­ca­use Mot­her was fros­ted with Mr. Selwyn." Her fa­ce fell. " 'Co­ur­se, that's pro­bably not an­y­t­hing."

  Mr. Selwyn? Then I re­mem­be­red. "That's the he­ad­mas­ter at Wal­den Scho­ol? You go the­re?"

  "Of co­ur­se."

  Of co­ur­se. Ever­y­body did.

  I was very in­te­res­ted in Wal­den Scho­ol and an­yo­ne con­nec­ted with it. Be­ca­use Patty Kay had sud­denly de­ci­ded to throw a party for the trus­te­es of Wal­den Scho­ol. And be­fo­re the cho­sen gu­ests co­uld ar­ri­ve, she was de­ad.

  Cause and ef­fect?

  I co­uldn't know, but I su­re in­ten­ded to lo­ok hard at Wal­den Scho­ol.

  Friday, Bri­git sa­id.

  "Why do you peg it to Fri­day?"

  "Because I saw Mot­her tal­king to Mr. Selwyn Thur­s­day af­ter­no­on-down at the track-and she was flir­ting with him. Of co­ur­se." Scorn shar­pe­ned her vo­ice. "But on Fri­day-"

  I in­ter­rup­ted. "Of co­ur­se?"

  "Oh, Mot­her co­uldn't see an­y­t­hing in pants and not turn it on. I don't know why Cra­ig put up with it. I'll bet Daddy ne­ver did."

  If this child didn't hang her step­fat­her one way, it lo­oked li­ke she'd ma­na­ge anot­her.

  But Bri­git was ob­li­vi­o­us of my tho­ug­h­t­ful ga­ze. She con­ti­nu­ed wit­ho­ut prod­ding. "On Fri­day he was stal­king down the hall-"

  "Who?"

  "Mr. Selwyn. And he was re­al­ly tic­ked off. Mot­her was gla­ring at him. She had a cer­ta­in lo­ok when she to­tal­ly des­pi­sed so­me­body, and that's how she was lo­oking at Mr. Selwyn. Not rnad exactly. But re­al­ly icy. Li­ke he was so­me kind of scum. May­be she ca­me on to him and he tur­ned her down."

  Her eyes glin­ted with ma­li�
�ce. The child lo­oked a lit­tle li­ke a whi­te rat when she was be­ing spi­te­ful. That wo­uld be­co­me mo­re pro­no­un­ced with age.

  She was ob­vi­o­usly ob­ses­sed with se­xu­ality. Not, of co­ur­se, an unu­su­al con­di­ti­on at her age.

  1 do­ub­ted very much that she'd cor­rectly re­ad the si­tu­ati­on bet­we­en Patty Kay and Mr. Selwyn. No­body be­co­mes he­ad­mas­ter of a posh scho­ol wit­ho­ut le­ar­ning exactly how to han­d­le wo­men of all ages, whet­her bud­ding or fully blo­omed, whet­her eager to be pic­ked or prickly.

  No. It must be so­met­hing el­se en­ti­rely. The he­ad­mas­ter wo­uld ne­ver ha­ve in­ten­ti­onal­ly of­fen­ded Patty Kay. He wo­uld know how to flat­ter her se­xu­al­ly wit­ho­ut go­ing over the bo­unds. That was part of his job.

 

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