Scandal in Fair Haven

Home > Other > Scandal in Fair Haven > Page 17
Scandal in Fair Haven Page 17

by Carolyn G. Hart


  "Brigit sa­id her mot­her was very angry at him. I want to know why."

  Gina was slip­ping on her ra­in­co­at, dig­ging out her car keys. "Who knows?" she rep­li­ed ab­sently. "May­be Chuck fi­nal­ly had the guts to stand up to Patty Kay over so­met­hing. Su­re, you can ask him. But I get first crack…"

  11

  "I'm lo­oking for­ward to se­e­ing the scho­ol." And I was. I'd he­ard eno­ugh abo­ut Wal­den Scho­ol to pi­que my in­te­rest. I re­ac­hed down and grab­bed my um­b­rel­la. "I'm par­ked in the pub­lic lot."

  Gina slip­ped in­to her ra­in­co­at. "I'm the­re too."

  At the front do­or, she rat­tled the knob to be su­re it was loc­ked. She didn't lo­ok at me.

  As we cros­sed the stre­et, she sa­id briskly, "Wal­den Scho­ol's on land ne­ar the ri­ver that was do­na­ted by the Pren­tiss fa­mily. The old Pren­tiss ho­use, bu­ilt in the early 1800s, is the scho­ol ad­mi­nis­t­ra­ti­on bu­il­ding."

  The air was damp, but it had stop­ped ra­ining. I tuc­ked my um­b­rel­la un­der my arm. "I sup­po­se Patty Kay felt rat­her prop­ri­etary abo­ut Wal­den Scho­ol sin­ce her fa­mily do­na­ted the land. Is that why she was on the bo­ard of trus­te­es?"

  Gina nod­ded. We wal­ked briskly down the si­de stre­et and in­to the par­king lot. She stop­ped be­si­de a sil­ver BMW. "That, and she lo­ved to te­ach."

  "Teach?"

  She shot me a qu­ick glan­ce as she le­aned down to un­lock her car. "Sur­p­ri­sed. I can see why. I me­an, it was di­let­tan­te, su­re. Three mor­nings a we­ek. Com­pa­ra­ti­ve lit. Spa­nish. Patty Kay had a thing abo­ut La­tin wri­ters. Sa­id they saw de­ath in li­fe bet­ter than an­y­body. Gre­ek to me."

  "So she was of­ten at the scho­ol." I sho­uld ha­ve lo­oked Patty Kay's day­bo­ok over mo­re tho­ro­ughly. Yes, I'd re­ad the no­ta­ti­on "Class" at ni­ne a.m. Fri­day. Re­ad right over it, ac­tu­al­ly. Class li­te­ral­ly had me­ant class. I'd as­su­med she was of­ten on the cam­pus in her ca­pa­city as a trus­tee. I'd bet­ter be ca­re­ful abo­ut ma­king as­sum­p­ti­ons.

  "Sure. She was out the­re a lot." Gi­na slid be­hind the whe­el.

  I wal­ked qu­ickly to my MG.

  The sil­ver BMW ro­ared down the stre­et. Gi­na Ab­bott dro­ve the way she tal­ked, fast and jerky.

  I had to slip thro­ugh on the ta­il end of two yel­low stop­lights to ke­ep up. I had plenty to think abo­ut. Bri­git had se­en her mot­her in che­er­ful con­ver­sa­ti­on with the he­ad­mas­ter la­te Thur­s­day af­ter­no­on. The next mor­ning Patty Kay was icily cold to Selwyn. Ac­cor­ding to Bri­git.

  Whatever had af­fec­ted Patty Kay's be­ha­vi­or must ha­ve oc­cur­red bet­we­en la­te af­ter­no­on Thur­s­day and her en­co­un­ter with the he­ad­mas­ter Fri­day mor­ning.

  At the ed­ge of town the BMW ca­re­ened on­to a black as­p­halt ro­ad. Pud­dles gey­se­red be­ne­ath the sports car's whe­els.

  The BMW was ga­ining on a black Jagu­ar mo­ving at a much slo­wer pa­ce. The cars shot up a hill, just short of the so­lid stri­pe war­ning not to pass.

  Gina le­aned on the horn and jer­ked the whe­el left. The BMW sur­ged past the Jagu­ar. Gi­na lif­ted a hand in a choppy wa­ve.

  I wa­ited un­til we cres­ted the hill, then ac­ce­le­ra­ted and pas­sed the Jagu­ar too. Far ahe­ad, al­most at the top of anot­her hill, the BMW shot right. I fol­lo­wed, tur­ning in be­ne­ath the or­na­te iron gril­lwork. Wal­den Scho­ol's mas­si­ve ga­tes sto­od open wi­de.

  A half do­zen or mo­re bu­il­dings we­re scat­te­red among the oaks, mag­no­li­as, and hac­k­ber­ri­es. The bu­il­dings we­re Gre­ek Re­vi­val in style.

  The sil­ver BMW swung in­to a par­king area clo­se to a lo­vely old ho­use that ser­ved as Wal­den Scho­ol's ad­mi­nis­t­ra­ti­on bu­il­ding. I pul­led in be­si­de it.

  "That was Bro­oke. In the Jagu­ar. She's pro­bably be­en at Edith's. Bro­oke al­ways do­es all the right things. Al­ways. I went over last night, but I just co­uldn't stand it to­day. Edith's prac­ti­cal­ly a zom­bie. She's pop­ping Va­li­um li­ke pe­anuts. She was lo­aded to the gills last night."

  "Yes."

  Gina lo­oked to­ward the ad­mi­nis­t­ra­ti­on bu­il­ding. She didn't ha­ve to say a word for me to un­der­s­tand. The sna­ke in Eden.

  She wal­ked so fast I had tro­ub­le ke­eping up. And she tal­ked fast. "Over the­re"-her arm swept to the right- "that's the lo­wer scho­ol. See, with the play­g­ro­und next to it. The mid­dle scho­ol's thro­ugh tho­se pi­nes. The up­per scho­ol bu­il­dings are clo­sest to the la­ke. The­se bu­il­dings ho­use mat­he­ma­tics, art, mu­sic, lan­gu­ages, and com­pu­ters. And that's the the­ater."

  Weeping wil­lows rim­med the pla­cid la­ke. Ge­ese and ducks wad­dled ne­ar the sho­re and pad­dled in the wa­ter. And Fran­ci di­ed in tho­se qu­i­et gre­en wa­ters.

  "The gyms and the fi­eld hoc­key, soc­cer, ba­se­ball, and fo­ot­ball fi­elds are on down the ro­ad, just aro­und the bend. You can see the ten­nis co­urts from he­re."

  And he­ar the ihock of balls. The pla­yers, in gray shorts and whi­te shirts, lo­oked to be mid­dle-sc­ho­ol age. They we­re qu­ite go­od.

  As we ne­ared the ho­use, bells rang and stu­dents po­ured from the bu­il­dings. The boys wo­re kha­ki slacks, whi­te shirts, ti­es, and blue bla­zers. The girls wo­re navy uni­form skirts and whi­te blo­uses.

  "It's all very im­p­res­si­ve."

  And the­re, run­ning and la­ug­hing, was a gro­up of lit­tle boys, boys abo­ut twel­ve…

  "But not Eden," Gi­na sa­id sharply. She hur­ri­ed up the shal­low steps to the front porch. She grab­bed the bron­ze do­or­k­nob and pul­led the he­avy do­or. "Or may­be it's just li­ke Eden. Li­ke ever­y­t­hing in li­fe. Lots of be­a­uty and un­der­ne­ath hor­ror wa­iting to hap­pen."

  "Horror do­esn't al­ways hap­pen."

  Gina didn't an­s­wer. Yo­ung Fran­ci's su­ici­de and Patty Kay's bru­tal mur­der had ma­de the skull be­ne­ath the skin too vi­vid for her.

  We step­ped in­to a co­ol, spa­ci­o­us hall. A gor­ge­o­us cre­am and blue Per­si­an rug co­ve­red the peg­ged wo­oden flo­or. A mid­dle-aged wo­man sat be­hind a well-or­de­red wal­nut desk. She lo­oked up from her com­pu­ter as we ap­pro­ac­hed and ga­ve a so­lemn nod.

  "Hello, Mrs. Ab­bott." She smi­led at me po­li­tely.

  "Hello, Ali­ce. I ne­ed to see Mr. Selwyn."

  "Oh, Mrs. Ab­bott, I'm not su­re. He's ha­ving such a hard day. So many pa­rents ha­ve cal­led. Ever­yo­ne's so up­set abo­ut Fran­ci." Her vo­ice was su­itably gra­ve, but her eyes ga­ve no hint of dis­t­ress.

  "That's why I ne­ed to see him." Gi­na tur­ned to her left to­ward clo­sed do­ub­le do­ors. An eye-le­vel na­mep­la­te proc­la­imed in gold let­ters:

  CHARLES EDWARD SELWYN

  He­ad­mas­ter

  The sec­re­tary's eyes flas­hed. She star­ted to ri­se, re­ady to do bat­tle to pro­tect her boss. "Mrs. Ab­bott, ple­ase-"

  The ma­in do­or ope­ned and Bro­oke For­rest step­ped in­si­de. She ga­ve us a tre­mu­lo­us smi­le.

  Gina to­ok a de­ep bre­ath. She didn't even say hel­lo. In­s­te­ad, she as­ked gruffly, "How's Edith?"

  Brooke's kind of be­a­uty is ra­re-clas­sic bo­ne struc­tu­re, ca­meo-smo­oth skin, hu­ge aqu­ama­ri­ne eyes be­ne­ath per­fect brows, sle­ek ra­ven-dark ha­ir. But to­day even her age­less lo­ve­li­ness ref­lec­ted in­ten­se stress. Dark sha­dows cur­ved be­ne­ath ha­un­ted eyes. De­ep li­nes brac­ke­ted her mo­uth.

  "Dreadful… Oh, Gi­na, it's so aw­ful, so aw­ful."

  The two fri­ends ca­me to­get­her, em­b­ra­ced.

  Belatedly, Gi­na re­mem­be­red me. "Bro­oke, I want you to me­et Hen­ri­et­ta Co
l­lins, Cra­ig's aunt."

  "We met last night, Gi­na. At Cheryl's." So­lemn aqu­ama­ri­ne eyes tur­ned to­ward me. "How are you, Mrs. Col­lins?" But she lo­oked fa­intly sur­p­ri­sed at my pre­sen­ce.

  "She wants to talk to Chuck. Patty Kay was mad at him. Mrs. Col­lins is lo­oking in­to ever­y­t­hing. She and Des­mond think so­me­body fra­med Cra­ig."

  "Framed him? Why, that's dre­ad­ful." Bro­oke sta­red at me in hor­ri­fi­ed con­cern.

  "Yes," I sa­id crisply, "it's qu­ite dre­ad­ful."

  "Certainly, yes, you must see abo­ut it." Bro­oke nod­ded. "But the­re's so much that ne­eds to be do­ne. We ha­ve to de­ci­de what kind of me­mo­ri­al the bo­ard will ma­ke for Patty Kay. It's so im­por­tant to do the right thing…"

  "The right thing," Gi­na re­pe­ated em­p­ha­ti­cal­ly. "Yes. I want to see the right thing do­ne." She grab­bed the han­d­le

  of one of the do­ub­le do­ors to the he­ad­mas­ter's of­fi­ce and yan­ked it open, ig­no­ring the sec­re­tary's star­t­led pro­test.

  Originally a dra­wing ro­om, the he­ad­mas­ter's of­fi­ce was re­mar­kab­le for its high, co­ved ce­iling with an ela­bo­ra­te cor­ni­ce. The desk, an an­ti­que French di­ning tab­le, fa­ced the do­ub­le do­ors. It sat bet­we­en two ce­iling-tall win­dows in the west wall. Equ­al­ly tall win­dows ope­ned on­to the front porch. Ele­gant ro­se silk han­gings fra­med all the win­dows. A half do­zen Chip­pen­da­le cha­irs we­re scat­te­red abo­ut on the flo­we­red Brus­sels ta­pestry car­pet. On the north wall, trophy ca­ses we­re mo­un­ted on eit­her si­de of a black mar­b­le fi­rep­la­ce. In­s­c­ri­bed sil­ver trop­hi­es glit­te­red in the light from the mul­ti­ti­ered chan­de­li­er.

  Charles (Chuck) Selwyn, he­ad­mas­ter of Wal­den Scho­ol, hal­ted in mid-st­ri­de as we en­te­red his of­fi­ce unan­no­un­ced. He held a cor­d­less te­lep­ho­ne re­ce­iver in his hand. His navy bla­zer was be­a­uti­ful­ly ta­ilo­red, his Ox­ford but­ton-down blue cot­ton shirt crisp, his rep tie pre­dic­tab­le, his kha­ki slacks per­fectly cre­ased.

  I won­de­red for a mo­ment if I'd wan­de­red in­to a 1950s Pe­ter Law­ford mo­vie. Selwyn had that kind of bo­yish go­od lo­oks, com­p­le­te to a lock of dark ha­ir that fell ac­ross his manly brow. He ra­ised a hand in gre­eting, and con­ti­nu­ed to talk in­to the pho­ne. "… cer­ta­inly un­der­s­tand yo­ur con­cern, Mrs. Wherry. We're do­ing our very best to pro­tect the yo­un­ger stu­dents from this sad event. Of co­ur­se, it do­es gi­ve all of us, pa­rents and fa­culty, an op­por­tu­nity to re­ach out to our stu­dents, a growth ex­pe­ri­en­ce, if you will, and-" The han­d­so­me fa­ce win­ced. He held the re­ce­iver a lit­tle way from his ear.

  We co­uld all he­ar "… don't send chil­d­ren to an ex­pen­sive scho­ol to ha­ve them in­vol­ved in this kind of up­set­ting si­tu­ati­on. I want so­me as­su­ran­ces that the­re won't be any mo­re talk abo­ut this. Su­san's cri­ed out in her sle­ep

  every night sin­ce we he­ard abo­ut it. And how co­uld a stu­dent do that kind of thing on scho­ol pro­perty wit­ho­ut an­yo­ne se­e­ing it? Even if it did hap­pen on the ot­her si­de of the la­ke. I cer­ta­inly fe­el-"

  Gina dar­ted ac­ross the ro­om.

  Selwyn ne­ver had a chan­ce.

  She snat­c­hed the re­ce­iver from his hand. "Lis­ten, lady, you get to tuck Su­san in to­night, don't you? How do you sup­po­se Fran­ci's mot­her fe­els? Talk abo­ut fe­elin­gs-don't you ha­ve any, for Christ's sa­ke?" She jab­bed the Off but­ton.

  Selwyn lo­oked li­ke so­me­body'd spit on the Ame­ri­can flag. "Mrs. Ab­bott, we may lo­se that fa­mily. We can't talk to pe­op­le li­ke that. They're up­set!"

  Gina's fa­ce bun­c­hed in­to a fu­ri­o­us scowl. "I'm up­set too. Edith's da­ug­h­ter is de­ad. De­ad!" For a mo­ment I fe­ared she wo­uld lo­se con­t­rol aga­in. "The im­por­tant thing is to find out who wro­te tho­se damn no­tes. We've got to do ever­y­t­hing we can do to find out who's res­pon­sib­le and-"

  Brooke frow­ned. "Res­pon­sib­le? Res­pon­sib­le for what?"

  "- kick who­ever it is out-"

  The pho­ne buz­zed.

  - Selwyn step­ped to­ward Gi­na, trying to ret­ri­eve his pho­ne.

  She con­ti­nu­ed to grip the re­ce­iver tightly. "No. We're go­ing to talk. Bro­oke, go tell Ali­ce to hold the calls. All the calls."

  Brooke, with a small sha­ke of her he­ad, obe­di­ently tur­ned and ope­ned the hall do­or. "Ali­ce, no calls for the he­ad­mas­ter, ple­ase."

  "Mrs. Ab­bott." Selwyn's vo­ice was sharp. It had lost so­me of its boy-he­ro qu­ality. May­be the­re was a re­al man hid­den in tho­se preppy clot­hes. "I'd li­ke to re­mind you that this is my of­fi­ce. I ha­ve my res­pon­si­bi­li­ti­es. It's my duty to re­as­su­re pa­rents in a ti­me of cri­sis and this is-"

  Brooke shut the hall do­or.

  Gina was trem­b­ling with ba­rely-sup­pres­sed ra­ge. "Yes, this is a ti­me of cri­sis," she snap­ped. "This is go­ing to be the event that marks whet­her Wal­den Scho­ol can de­al with re­ality, the re­ality of cru­el­ty-and do so­met­hing abo­ut it."

  "Of co­ur­se de­ath is cru­el when it ta­kes one so yo­ung, Mrs. Ab­bott, and we're de­fi­ni­tely de­aling with all as­pects of the prob­lem. Co­un­se­lors ha­ve ar­ran­ged gro­up ses­si­ons thro­ug­ho­ut to­day and to­mor­row, and the­re will be an up­per scho­ol as­sembly Thur­s­day mor­ning. I as­su­re you it will be-"

  "Shouldn't scho­ol clo­se to­mor­row?" Bro­oke in­ter­rup­ted softly. "In Patty Kay's ho­nor? Her fu­ne­ral's at ten."

  Selwyn be­gan to lo­ok li­ke a man with a bad he­adac­he. Still, he ma­na­ged to ke­ep his vo­ice ple­asant. "I un­der­s­tand the sen­ti­ment, Mrs. For­rest, but in vi­ew of the ot­her tra­gedy we're con­f­ron­ting, I strongly be­li­eve it's im­pe­ra­ti­ve to ma­in­ta­in as ne­arly nor­mal a sche­du­le as pos­sib­le, all the whi­le en­co­ura­ging our stu­dents to com­mu­ni­ca­te the­ir gri­ef and fe­ars and to un­der­s­tand that a dis­tur­bed per­son can­not be held res­pon­sib­le for his or her acts." He brus­hed back that lock of ha­ir. "And we didn't ha­ve sports yes­ter­day. We've got to get back to nor­mal."

  Gina stal­ked to­ward him, sto­od a few scant in­c­hes from him. "Chuck, for Christ's sa­ke, stop tal­king li­ke a Wo­ody Al­len mo­vie." She con­f­ron­ted him, her hands bal­led in­to angry fists, her fa­ce fi­er­ce with dis­gust. "Let's put it on the tab­le, Chuck. Stop bla­ming the vic­tim. So­me­body-a re­al per­son-a stu­dent-was res­pon­sib­le for a lit­tle girl kil­ling her­self. Anot­her Wal­den Scho­ol stu­dent wro­te tho­se hi­de­o­us no­tes to Fran­ci. Deg­ra­ding, sic­ke­ning, nasty no­tes. That stu­dent must be held ac­co­un­tab­le. So how abo­ut let­ting all of our stu­dents grap­ple with mo­ral res­pon­si­bi­lity? Okay?"

  "Notes? What no­tes? Gi­na, what are you tal­king abo­ut?" Bro­oke's soft vo­ice was be­wil­de­red.

  Gina swung to­ward her. "You don't know?"

  Brooke sho­ok her he­ad, and her silky black ha­ir swa­yed.

  Gina's eyes glit­te­red. "So­me­one's be­en sen­ding Fran­ci no­tes full of filth, sa­ying she was stu­pid, des­c­ri­bing re­al­ly ' sick sex, as­king her how she'd li­ke to ha­ve so­me, slip­ping por­no pic­tu­res in­to the let­ters. Oh, God, Edith fo­und a who­le sho­ebox of this crap un­der Fran­ci's bed."

  Brooke step­ped back in a va­in at­tempt to es­ca­pe the fu­ri­o­us di­at­ri­be. Her lo­vely fa­ce cre­ased in hor­ror. "Oh, that's dre­ad­ful," she cri­ed. "I can't ima­gi­ne it. Oh, we mustn't let an­yo­ne know-"

  "Not let an­yo­ne know?" Gi­na's ra­ging sta­re was in­c­re­du­lo­us. "Do we li­ve on the sa­me pla­net? Of co­ur­se we ha­ve to let pe­op­le know. And so­me­one will ha­ve se­en s
o­met­hing, so­me­one will know eno­ugh to le­ad us to who­ever wro­te them."

  Brooke's long, gra­ce­ful hands ro­se in dis­may. Her na­ils we­re per­fect, a pa­le pink this mor­ning. Se­lec­ted, I was cer­ta­in, for Fran­ci's fu­ne­ral. Bro­oke wo­uld ha­ve tho­ught abo­ut that. Not­hing too bright. She was that kind of wo­man. Her black silk su­it, the V-nec­ked jac­ket cut short and squ­are with sub­du­ed sil­ver but­tons and a mo­de­ra­te stra­ight skirt, was per­fect too. The jewelry was tas­te­ful. Small sil­ver studs in her ears, a sin­g­le-st­rand pe­arl nec­k­la­ce, a fi­ne-lin­ked sil­ver bra­ce­let. Only the dis­t­ress in her lo­vely fa­ce mar­red her mo­de­ling-ramp ap­pe­aran­ce. "How aw­ful for Fran­ci, to ha­ve it all co­me out. All tho­se things… Oh, no. We can't. The scan­dal. It wo­uld be so aw­ful for Fran­ci."

 

‹ Prev