Scandal in Fair Haven

by Carolyn G. Hart

  "Brooke, Fran­ci's de­ad!" Gi­na sho­uted it. "What wo­uld be aw­ful wo­uld be to let the per­son who dro­ve that child to her de­ath get away with it. We've got to find out who wro­te

  that nasty stuff." Her bony fa­ce scrun­c­hed in­to an ugly mask of re­vul­si­on.

  The he­ad­mas­ter lif­ted his hands as if qu­i­eting an un­ruly class. "Mrs. Ab­bott, I must in­sist that I know the pro­per ro­le for us to play in this tra­gic dra­ma. This, af­ter all, is my do­ma­in. I'm an ex­pert in de­aling with the emo­ti­onal tra­umas of yo­ung pe­op­le. Mo­un­ting a wit­c­h­hunt among our stu­dents wo­uld su­rely be the most co­un­ter­p­ro­duc­ti­ve act pos­sib­le. I do fully un­der­s­tand yo­ur con­cern with res­pon­si­bi­lity, and I as­su­re you that I will bend my ef­forts- qu­i­et ones-to se­ek out the per­pet­ra­tor. But"-he spo­ke firmly- "I must stress that the pro­per ap­pro­ach will not be ven­ge­an­ce or ret­ri­bu­ti­on but a sor­row­ful con­f­ron­ta­ti­on and ap­prop­ri­ate co­un­se­ling." Mo­ur­n­ful­ly, he sho­ok his he­ad. "Can you not ima­gi­ne, Mrs. Ab­bott, the sor­row and des­pa­ir in so­me yo­ut­h­ful he­art even as we spe­ak? A chil­dish prank has re­sul­ted in a ter­rib­le tra­gedy that is cer­ta­in to scar the yo­ung per­son res­pon­sib­le. Per­haps fo­re­ver…"

  "Forever wo­uld be too short." Gi­na's vo­ice cut thro­ugh his ba­na­li­ti­es. "This was not a chil­dish prank, Chuck. This was a vi­ci­o­us, tho­ro­ughly nasty, dep­ra­ved at­tempt to de­li­be­ra­tely des­t­roy a vul­ne­rab­le child."

  "Those are strong words." Anot­her sor­row­ful he­ad-sha­ke. "I must ur­ge you, too, to se­ek co­un­se­ling, Mrs. Ab­bott. Our co­un­se­lors are ava­ilab­le to our pat­rons. You must work thro­ugh yo­ur an­ger."

  "Yes," Bro­oke mur­mu­red. "We've got to put it all be­hind us." She smo­ot­hed back her silky ha­ir. "We can't let it des­t­roy Wal­den Scho­ol. And we can't let po­or Fran­ci's na­me be drag­ged in the mud."

  Gina jam­med her hands in her ra­in­co­at poc­kets, scow­ling at Selwyn and Bro­oke. "I see. Le­ast sa­id, so­onest men­ded, that sort of thing?" Her vo­ice was even, unin-flec­ted, her eyes opa­que with an­ger.

  The he­ad­mas­ter be­amed at her as if she we­re a dif­fi­cult pu­pil ma­king unex­pec­ted prog­ress. "Exactly, Mrs. Ab­bott. I knew you'd un­der­s­tand."

  But Bro­oke knew her bet­ter. She sa­id ca­re­ful­ly, "I know it isn't per­fect, Gi­na. But we ha­ve to ta­ke ever­y­t­hing in­to ac­co­unt. We must think how it wo­uld ma­ke Edith fe­el. It wo­uld be so hu­mi­li­ating for the fa­mily to ha­ve all that co­me out. And it wo­uld be dre­ad­ful for Wal­den Scho­ol."

  Gina sta­red at Bro­oke in dis­be­li­ef. "All what?"

  Brooke lo­oked fa­intly be­wil­de­red. "Well, you sa­id it- all tho­se aw­ful things in tho­se no­tes. Why, it wo­uld just kill Edith."

  "Brooke, the no­tes we­re filthy li­es-"

  "That do­esn't mat­ter. If pe­op­le say things, then the­re are whis­pers and ever­y­t­hing co­uld get so ugly, and you can't fight that kind of thing. And what if it got in the new­s­pa­pers? It wo­uld be a dre­ad­ful scan­dal. It co­uld ru­in Wal­den Scho­ol." Bro­oke nod­ded de­ci­si­vely. "I know Patty Kay wo­uld want us to do ever­y­t­hing pos­sib­le to pro­tect the scho­ol."

  "So you and Chuck want to hush this all up?"

  Brooke glan­ced at the he­ad­mas­ter.

  Selwyn smo­ot­hed back that lock of ha­ir. "Mrs. Ab­bott, the bo­ard is me­eting he­re to­mor­row night. My strong re­com­men­da­ti­on will be to ke­ep mat­ters as calm as pos­sib­le. We must re­ali­ze that our acts ha­ve re­per­cus­si­ons." He lo­oked hard and long at Gi­na. "I cer­ta­inly can en­vi­si­on a loss of scho­lar­s­hips re­sul­ting if this un­for­tu­na­te in­ci­dent be­ca­me pub­lic. And we wo­uld ha­te to ha­ve to wit­h­d­raw scho­lar­s­hips that ha­ve al­re­ady be­en awar­ded. Don't you ag­ree, Mrs. Ab­bott?" His eyes chal­len­ged Gi­na.

  It was li­ke wat­c­hing a bal­lo­on def­la­te.

  "Oh." Gi­na's sho­ul­ders slum­ped. "I see."

  No one had to tell me that her da­ug­h­ter was at­ten­ding Wal­den Scho­ol on a scho­lar­s­hip.

  I al­most jum­ped in­to it. God knows I wan­ted to. A lit­tle girl dri­ven to su­ici­de… But Cra­ig was ali­ve and in ja­il and in des­pe­ra­te ne­ed of help. Yo­ung Fran­ci Hol­lis was be­yond any help I co­uld gi­ve. Po­or lit­tle lost lamb, wal­king out in­to cold wa­ter, the muddy bot­tom suc­king at her sho­es, ten­d­rils of re­eds clin­ging to her body…

  Selwyn clas­ped his hands to­get­her pra­yer­ful­ly. "We shall we­at­her this storm. I've sche­du­led an up­per scho­ol as­sembly Thur­s­day mor­ning. It will be a won­der­ful op­por­tu­nity to bring us all to­get­her as a fa­mily."

  Brooke nod­ded eagerly. "That might be a go­od ti­me to an­no­un­ce a me­mo­ri­al for Patty Kay."

  The me­mo­ri­al was cle­arly Bro­oke's agen­da. She in­ten­ded to ad­dress it no mat­ter what the ot­hers had in mind.

  "I be­li­eve," the he­ad­mas­ter in­te­rj­ec­ted ca­re­ful­ly, "that it wo­uld be bet­ter to de­lay that an­no­un­ce­ment. Per­haps on Fo­un­ders Day next month… That's when we tra­di­ti­onal­ly re­call our debt to the Pren­tiss fa­mily-"

  But I, too, had an agen­da. "Mr. Selwyn, I'm Hen­ri­et­ta Col­lins-"

  Gina lo­oked em­bar­ras­sed. "I'm sorry. I for­got to in­t­ro­du­ce you. Chuck, Mrs. Col­lins is Cra­ig's aunt."

  It didn't ta­ke a cal­cu­la­tor to add up the he­ad­mas­ter's tho­ughts in swift se­qu­en­ce: Cra­ig Mat­thews's aunt, Cra­ig Mat­thews might in­he­rit a go­od por­ti­on of Patty Kay's for­tu­ne, Cra­ig's aunt must be tre­ated with de­fe­ren­ce. Selwyn lo­oked to­ward me. His smo­oth, at­trac­ti­ve smi­le was du­ti­ful­ly in pla­ce.

  "I'm sorry to in­t­ru­de when I know you ha­ve so much to at­tend to, but I wan­ted to find out abo­ut yo­ur di­sag­re­ement with Patty Kay."

  The char­ming smi­le con­ge­aled.

  Brooke ga­ve me a star­t­led glan­ce, then her eyes jer­ked to­ward Selwyn.

  Hands jam­med in­to the poc­kets of her ra­in­co­at, Gi­na sta­red mo­odily at the flo­or.

  It was so qu­i­et for a mo­ment that the bong of the gran­d­fat­her clock an­no­un­cing the no­on ho­ur so­un­ded ob­s­ce­nely lo­ud. Fa­intly, we co­uld he­ar, too, the bo­is­te­ro­us sho­uts of stu­dents from the at­h­le­tic fi­elds and the ro­ar of a pas­sing car.

  The he­ad­mas­ter's han­d­so­me fa­ce cre­ased in li­nes of sor­row, but an­ger flic­ke­red in his eyes. "If we co­uld but re­call words spo­ken in an­ger, es­pe­ci­al­ly over so tri­vi­al a mat­ter." Now his smi­le tur­ned ru­eful-and, of co­ur­se, so bo­yishly ap­pe­aling. Ex­cept for tho­se angry eyes.

  Brooke's fa­ce sof­te­ned. She nod­ded en­co­ura­gingly at him.

  Selwyn sig­hed. "I've not even had ti­me to co­me to grips with Mrs. Mat­thews's pas­sing." He ges­tu­red mo­ur­n­ful­ly.

  I al­most in­ter­rup­ted to re­mind him that hers was scar­cely the na­tu­ral de­par­tu­re im­p­li­ed by his words. I res­t­ra­ined myself.

  He con­ti­nu­ed: "And to think we par­ted in an­ger. Over not­hing, re­al­ly."

  "What was it?"

  His eyes flic­ked ir­ri­tably to­ward me.

  I wasn't win­ning any po­pu­la­rity con­tests- with He­ad­mas­ter Selwyn.

  "A mat­ter of po­licy," he rep­li­ed smo­othly. "As you know, Mrs. Mat­thews was a per­son of such en­t­hu­si­asm. Whe­ne­ver she be­ca­me in­vol­ved in an ac­ti­vity, she felt very strongly that the world sho­uld al­so par­ti­ci­pa­te."

  "What did Patty Kay want you to do?"

  "To of­fer our stu­dents flying in­s­t­ruc­ti­on."
r />   "Flying?" Bro­oke swiftly sho­ok her he­ad. "Oh, no. That's too dan­ge­ro­us."

  Gina ex­p­la­ined, "Patty Kay'd just le­ar­ned how to fly. I don't know if Cra­ig'd told you. She lo­ved it."

  The he­ad­mas­ter tur­ned his hands up. "Her en­t­hu­si­asm was un­bo­un­ded. She was fu­ri­o­us when I told her that it was out of the qu­es­ti­on. The in­su­ran­ce alo­ne wo­uld be in­sur­mo­un­tab­le." He lo­oked at me ear­nestly, the fund se­eker's eager­ness se­eping in­to his vo­ice. "I'm su­re you ap­pre­ci­ate, Mrs. Col­lins, that no mat­ter how pros­pe­ro­us a scho­ol may ap­pe­ar, our bud­ge­tary con­cerns are al­ways pres­sing. The­re is the new tec­h­no­logy to pro­vi­de. It's as­to­nis­hing how qu­ickly com­pu­ter labs be­co­me ob­so­le­te and new mac­hi­nes must be pur­c­ha­sed. And up­ke­ep for this mag­ni­fi­cent physi­cal plant re­qu­ires an enor­mo­us-"

  "Was that why she tre­ated you with such cold con­tempt on Fri­day?" I wa­ited at­ten­ti­vely.

  His eyes bla­zed now, but still he ma­na­ged to ke­ep his vo­ice ple­asant. "I wo­uld not cha­rac­te­ri­ze her at­ti­tu­de in that fas­hi­on-"

  "Con­tempt is not the right word?" I lo­oked at him in­qu­iringly.

  Brooke was sta­ring at me, her eyes tro­ub­led.

  "Certainly not, Mrs. Col­lins." His smo­oth fa­ga­de crac­ked. Fi­nal­ly, he spo­ke sharply. "That is a gross mi­sin­ter­p­re­ta­ti­on. As the­se la­di­es know, Mrs. Mat­thews was qu­ite open abo­ut her fe­elings and I will cer­ta­inly be the first to ad­mit that she was de­eply- de­ep­ly-di­sap­po­inted at my res­pon­se. And I'm su­re I wo­uld ha­ve he­ard much mo­re abo­ut it. In fact, I be­li­eve she in­ten­ded to pro­sel­y­ti­ze for her plans at her din­ner party Sa­tur­day eve­ning." His vo­ice drop­ped lu­gub­ri­o­usly. "The din­ner party that ne­ver was. Ah, we must al­ways be awa­re of our mor­ta­lity and stri­ve to do our very best at all ti­mes."

  I didn't ha­ve a chan­ce to an­s­wer. The­re was a sud­den flurry at the do­or, the mur­mur of vo­ices, all su­itably hus­hed.

  But per­haps it was just as well. It wo­uldn't ha­ve be­en se­emly in tho­se ci­vi­li­zed con­fi­nes to in­form He­ad­mas­ter Chuck Selwyn that I tho­ught he was pho­ni­er than Ge­or­ge Bush in cal­ling for a kin­der, gen­t­ler Ame­ri­ca whi­le aut­ho­ri­zing in­f­lam­ma­tory Wil­lie Hor­ton ads.

  I con­ten­ted myself with a sar­do­nic glan­ce.

  Selwyn's fa­ce didn't chan­ge from its su­itably som­ber mold; his eyes glis­te­ned with smug sa­tis­fac­ti­on.

  The sec­re­tary's vo­ice an­no­un­ced: "Mr. Selwyn, I'm so sorry to in­ter­rupt. But the stu­dent co­un­cil of­fi­cers are he­re for the­ir ap­po­in­t­ment."

  The he­ad­mas­ter mo­ved to­ward the do­or. "Co­me in, yo­ung pe­op­le. Co­me in." He wa­ved the three stu­dents to se­ats. The­re was one fa­mi­li­ar fa­ce, Bro­oke's son, Dan. "The­se la­di­es are just le­aving." Selwyn was trying to shep­herd us to­ward the do­or. "I ho­pe I've ad­dres­sed ever­yo­ne's con­cerns ade­qu­ately."

  Gina ga­ve a tiny shrug and tur­ned to go. Her lips we­re set in a grim, tight li­ne.

  To my sur­p­ri­se, so­ci­al­ly obe­di­ent Bro­oke didn't mo­ve. She was lo­oking at her son. Her fa­ce was open and vul­ne­rab­le. The pas­si­on of a mot­her's lo­ve was as lo­ud as if she'd sho­uted it to the world.

  I sus­pec­ted a gre­at many pa­rents of Wal­den Scho­ol stu­dents we­re lo­oking at the­ir chil­d­ren to­day with equ­al emo­ti­on. No pa­rent who ca­red wo­uld be un­to­uc­hed by Fran­ci's tra­gic su­ici­de.

  Dan For­rest ga­ve us a sub­du­ed smi­le. His han­d­so­me fa­ce was pa­le. "Hi, Mot­her. Mrs. Ab­bott." He nod­ded po­li­tely to me. He wo­re the uni­form of an up­per scho­ol stu-

  dent, blue bla­zer, whi­te but­ton-down Ox­ford shirt, and kha­ki slacks. They lo­oked bet­ter on him than on Selwyn.

  The he­ad­mas­ter's gre­eting was brisk. "Hel­lo, Dan. Ap­pre­ci­ate yo­ur step­ping in and ta­king char­ge sin­ce Walt can't be he­re to­day."

  An aw­k­ward si­len­ce fol­lo­wed this gre­eting. Gi­na re­ac­hed out and to­ok Bro­oke's hand, then told me so­berly, "Walt is Fran­ci's brot­her."

  The te­ena­ger to­ok a de­ep bre­ath, then, ob­vi­o­usly im­p­res­sed with the se­ri­o­us­ness of his task, ad­dres­sed the he­ad­mas­ter. "Thank you for ma­king ti­me to see us, sir. I'm he­re as stu­dent co­un­cil vi­ce pre­si­dent and ac­ting pre­si­dent to rep­re­sent the stu­dent body"-was the­re just the slig­h­test lift of self-im­por­tan­ce?-"in the mat­ter of a me­mo­ri­al for Fran­ci Hol­lis. I met this mor­ning with my fel­low of­fi­cers"- he nod­ded to­ward the tall, wil­lowy bru­net­te and stocky, at­h­le­tic blond who ac­com­pa­ni­ed him-"Sec­re­tary La­urie Adams and Tre­asu­rer Mark Ken­nedy. We vo­ted to ask the bo­ard of trus­te­es to plant a ro­se gar­den ne­ar the la­ke and na­me it in ho­nor of Fran­ci."

  Selwyn step­ped for­ward and sho­ok the boy's hand vi­go­ro­usly. "I'm im­p­res­sed with the tho­ug­h­t­ful­ness and de­li­cacy of fe­eling this re­qu­est rep­re­sents. Out of this tra­gedy can grow a gre­ater un­der­s­tan­ding of the ne­eds of all stu­dents. Fran­ci's ro­se gar­den can be an ever-pre­sent re­min­der of the be­a­uty of each in­di­vi­du­al and the ne­ed to ta­ke ti­me for ref­lec­ti­on and com­mu­ni­ca­ti­on of our ca­re for one anot­her."

  Gina pres­sed her lips to­get­her.

  Brooke smud­ged away a te­ar.

  Dan's stiff sho­ul­ders eased slightly. "I tho­ug­ht-we tho­ught may­be we co­uld get it plan­ted, then ha­ve Walt le­ad the de­di­ca­ti­on."

  "A splen­did pro­po­sal, Dan, La­urie, Mark. I'll pre­sent yo­ur plan to the bo­ard. I fe­el con­fi­dent it will be adop­ted."

  Another flurry of han­d­s­ha­kes. Then the stu­dents we­re go­ne.

  As the do­or clo­sed on them, Selwyn se­emed to re­ali­ze we we­re still with him. Po­in­tedly, he glan­ced at his watch. "La­di­es, I do ha­ve anot­her ap­po­in­t­ment in a few mi­nu­tes…"

  "Oh, yes, of co­ur­se." Bro­oke mo­ved to­ward the do­or. "We un­der­s­tand. The­re is so much to be do­ne. I'll see you at the bo­ard me­eting to­mor­row night."

  Gina wasn't sa­ying a word. She mo­ved to­ward the do­or.

  I held up my hand. "Just one thing mo­re."

  Gina and Bro­oke pa­used.

  Selwyn eyed me with the en­t­hu­si­asm of a zo­oke­eper spot­ting an es­ca­ped vi­per. I co­uld al­most he­ar the cal­cu­la­ti­ons run­ning thro­ugh his mind- a med­dle­so­me old bitch, but the Pren­tiss mo­ney, the Pren­tiss mo­ney, the Pren­tiss mo­ney …

  "Yes, Mrs. Col­lins?"

  "I'd li­ke to ask whe­re each of you we­re bet­we­en fo­ur and fi­ve o'clock on last Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­on."

  Gina lo­oked at me sharply, but her reply was icy and swift. "At my of­fi­ce. Wor­king on a bid. Alo­ne."

  Brooke sta­red at me as if she co­uldn't be­li­eve her ears. "You're as­king me whe­re I was when-isn't that abo­ut the ti­me Cr-" She bro­ke off, clap­ped a hand to her mo­uth. "-the ti­me so­me­one shot Patty Kay?" she fi­nis­hed in a rush.

  "Yes."

  Her eyes se­ar­c­hed our fa­ces. I'm not su­re what she so­ught. Out­ra­ge on her be­half, per­haps. When she fi­nal­ly

  spoke, her vo­ice was in­dig­nant and be­a­uti­ful­ly con­t­rol­led. "I was wor­king in my gar­den."

  "Alone?"

  "Why, yes. Of co­ur­se. Da­vid do­esn't li­ke to gar­den. Be­si­des, he was at his of­fi­ce. But Dan was in the club­ro­om. I co­uld he­ar his mu­sic."

  That left Mr. Eter­nal Yo­uth.

  In Selwyn's eyes I co­uld re­ad it as sharp as three le­mons in a slot mac­hi­ne win­dow: med­dle­some old bitc
h. Yet he rep­li­ed.

  "I was hi­king. At La­ke Rad­nor."

  Lake Rad­nor is one of the gre­at joys of Nas­h­vil­le, a patch of wil­der­ness in an ur­ban area, a la­ke that on pla­cid days ref­lects the tre­es on its banks in shim­me­ring sha­des of ghostly gre­en. And it is so sa­fe that so­li­tary wo­men can walk its tra­ils and ro­ads. That in it­self ma­kes it spe­ci­al.

  "Alone?"

  "Of co­ur­se."

  "Thank you." I nod­ded. "It's go­od to know whe­re we stand." I ope­ned the do­or and wal­ked out.