Scandal in Fair Haven

by Carolyn G. Hart

  the ever­g­re­ens. Kind of hi­ding the­re. I tho­ught it was odd, so I duc­ked un­der the bran­c­hes. She was lying on the gro­und, in a ball, sort of. I tho­ught for su­re she was sick. I as­ked her what she was do­ing. She sa­id she was wa­iting un­til ever­y­body left be­fo­re she star­ted ho­me. I as­ked why. She sa­id she didn't want to see an­y­body. She star­ted to cry. She sa­id she didn't ha­ve fri­ends an­y­mo­re and she ne­ver wan­ted to see an­y­body ever aga­in. I told her that was dumb. I was her fri­end and she had lots of fri­ends and wha­te­ver ma­de her think she didn't ha­ve fri­ends? And she held up this en­ve­lo­pe. I to­ok it and-" She stop­ped, didn't lo­ok at us.

  Her mot­her un­der­s­to­od in­s­tantly. "It's all right. You didn't wri­te tho­se words. But you ha­ve to tell us. We know it isn't you, Chloe."

  Haltingly, Chloe re­pe­ated what she re­mem­be­red.

  Nasty, yes.

  Worse than that, spi­te­ful and cru­el.

  And cru­elest of all-

  "… en­ded up sa­ying if Fran­ci ever told an­y­body abo­ut the no­tes, Walt wo­uld get one tel­ling him all abo­ut Fran­ci and he'd be so dis­gus­ted he'd say she wasn't his sis­ter."

  "Oh, Jesus." Gi­na's hands clen­c­hed in­to fists.

  "And then she got re­al up­set and ma­de me swe­ar I'd ne­ver, ne­ver, ne­ver tell an­y­body. And I had to pro­mi­se, she was so up­set."

  "Describe the no­tes to me, Chloe. Han­d­w­rit­ten? Typed? Com­pu­ter?"

  "Square pink en­ve­lo­pes. The mes­sa­ge was from cut-out let­ters pas­ted on whi­te pa­per. Dumb stuff. I told Fran­ci it was just junk and she sho­uld ig­no­re it. Eit­her that or tell a co­un­se­lor, li­ke Mrs. Wat­kins. But she wo­uldn't lis­ten to me."

  "How did she get the let­ters?"

  Her body stif­fe­ned. "She didn't say."

  Gina lo­oked sharply at her da­ug­h­ter.

  "Who do you think wro­te tho­se no­tes?" I as­ked.

  "I don't know. I don't ha­ve any idea." But her eyes wo­uldn't me­et mi­ne.

  "Chloe, who dis­li­ked Fran­ci?"

  I didn't miss the slight easing of ten­si­on in the girl's sho­ul­ders. "Ever­y­body li­ked Fran­ci. She was al­ways happy. Bubbly and che­er­ful and a lit­tle bit silly. Lots of ti­mes she didn't ha­ve a clue what was go­ing on, but no­body ca­red. And she was so ho­nest. She'd co­me up to so­me guy in her class and tell him she tho­ught he was won­der­ful and it was ni­ce-li­ke so­me­body li­king the­ir dog or mo­on­be­ams or ro­ses, and the guy wo­uld grin and pat her on the sho­ul­der and say thanks. It wasn't li­ke she had a crush on him or an­y­t­hing. I me­an, she wasn't trying to push him, get him to pay at­ten­ti­on to her. She just tho­ught he was gre­at and wan­ted to tell him. She ma­de pe­op­le fe­el go­od be­ca­use she was al­ways sa­ying so­met­hing ni­ce-wit­ho­ut trying to get so­met­hing for it." She lo­oked at me do­ub­t­ful­ly.

  "I un­der­s­tand. So you don't be­li­eve so­me­one wro­te the no­tes be­ca­use of per­so­nal dis­li­ke."

  "Nobody dis­li­ked Fran­ci." She sa­id it firmly.

  "Somebody didn't li­ke her."

  Chloe sta­red down at the shiny pink po­lish on her to­es. "So­me­ti­mes Fran­ci co­uld be ir­ri­ta­ting. Li­ke when she'd sing the sa­me song over and over. Or gig­gle too much. She ma­de Bri­git ner­vo­us."

  "So she ir­ri­ta­ted Bri­git?"

  "Yeah. But lo­ok, we've be­en in scho­ol to­get­her sin­ce we we­re lit­tle kids. Ever­y­body was used to Fran­ci. She was part of things."

  "When did Fran­ci stop be­ing happy?"

  Chloe slid off the cha­ir arm, to­ok one step back. Her eyes flic­ked to­ward her mot­her, then, ab­ruptly, her yo­ung fa­ce squ­e­ezed in­to mi­sery. She yan­ked her hands up to her eyes. "I don't want to talk abo­ut it. I don't want to!" Sobs rac­ked her vo­ice. She whir­led and ran from the ro­om.

  The blo­od dra­ined from Gi­na's fa­ce as she sta­red af­ter her da­ug­h­ter. "Mrs. Col­lins, if you don't mind…"

  I was al­re­ady mo­ving to­ward the front do­or. I'd le­ar­nedv all that I co­uld he­re.

  I had one last glim­p­se of Gi­na's frig­h­te­ned eyes be­fo­re the do­or clo­sed.

  I un­der­s­to­od her fe­ar.

  I wis­hed I co­uld ha­ve fol­lo­wed Gi­na up the sta­irs. Be­ca­use her da­ug­h­ter's vo­ice may ha­ve sha­ken with sobs.

  But when Chloe whir­led to run from the li­ving ro­om, her eyes we­re dry.

  When I see a slo­venly wo­man, ma­ke­up as­kew or no ma­ke­up at all, un­kempt ha­ir, rad­dled stoc­kings, I know I'm se­e­ing a cre­atu­re num­bed by pa­in.

  Even the out­si­de of the Hol­lis ho­me lo­oked dis­con­so­la­te, the ac­cu­mu­la­ti­on of se­ve­ral days' new­s­pa­pers, a brown plas­tic gar­ba­ge pa­il lying on its si­de, a tra­il of lit­ter ac­ross the lawn drag­ged the­re by a sca­ven­ging dog.

  I pres­sed the bell, kno­wing it was still too early to call, es­pe­ci­al­ly at this ho­use of mo­ur­ning, but kno­wing, too, that I had no cho­ice.

  I rang aga­in.

  And aga­in.

  Finally, the do­or swung open.

  Walt Hol­lis wo­re a fa­ded T-shirt and je­ans. In the pho­tos pin­ned up at Gi­na's shop, he'd ap­pe­ared ro­und-fa­ced and che­er­ful with an easy, go­od-hu­mo­red smi­le. This

  drawn, whi­te, too-old fa­ce didn't lo­ok as tho­ugh it'd ever worn a smi­le.

  "Yes." He sta­red at me dully, wit­ho­ut in­te­rest.

  He'd be­en at Patty Kay's fu­ne­ral and at Pa­me­la Guth-rie's af­ter the fu­ne­ral. I co­uldn't tell whet­her he re­cog­ni­zed me. I didn't think it mat­te­red. This yo­ung man's world was down to bed­rock. So that's whe­re I'd start.

  "Walt, I'm go­ing to find out who wro­te tho­se no­tes to yo­ur sis­ter."

  The slack mus­c­les in his fa­ce tig­h­te­ned.

  I've se­en that sa­me lo­ok be­fo­re in the Af­ri­can veldt, on a bat­tleg­ro­und, du­ring a bo­xing match, the in­ten­se, un­wa­ve­ring sta­re of a pre­da­tor.

  Silently, he held the do­or open and ad­mit­ted me.

  This was a ho­use whe­re gri­ef had sus­pen­ded li­ving. No light. No mo­ve­ment. Dust.

  He led the way in­to the li­ving ro­om, swit­c­hing on lights. He ges­tu­red to­ward an easy cha­ir.

  I to­ok it.

  He sto­od stiffly by the man­tel.

  "Is yo­ur mot­her-"

  "She do­esn't get up." The boy's vo­ice was flat. "May­be this af­ter­no­on. But she pro­bably wo­uldn't see you."

  I didn't ask, but he an­s­we­red an­y­way.

  "My dad's go­ne, left on a bu­si­ness trip a lit­tle whi­le ago. I don't bla­me him. If I co­uld go so­mew­he­re, I wo­uld too. Not that it wo­uld ma­ke any dif­fe­ren­ce. May­be it wo­uld. May­be if I co­uld just start wal­king and not stop, may­be that wo­uld help."

  I co­uld ha­ve told him it wo­uldn't, but he'd find out so­on eno­ugh. So­me wo­unds clo­se over, but they ne­ver he­al. No mat­ter what hap­pe­ned-whet­her we ever fo­und the po­ison pen wri­ter, the per­son who shot Patty Kay-Walt Hol­lis's world wo­uld ne­ver be the sa­me.

  His eyes bo­re un­re­len­tingly in­to mi­ne. "Tho­se let­ters- you think we can find out who did that to Fran­ci?"

  "Yes." I told him abo­ut Patty Kay's fin­ger­p­rints on Fran­ci's loc­ker.

  "So that's why Fran­ci was so up­set Fri­day mor­ning. I saw her when I was on my way to French. She was crying. See, things ha­ven't be­en right for a long ti­me. But I co­uldn't get her to tell me." An­gu­is­hed eyes sta­red at me. "Fran­ci al­ways told me ever­y­t­hing. But this ye­ar ever­y­t­hing was wrong. She wo­uldn't talk to me. It star­ted the we­ek af­ter I won the elec­ti­on. In Sep­tem­ber." He glan­ced a
t me. "Class pre­si­dent. And I kind of won­de­red-she'd ne­ver, ever be­en je­alo­us of me. Ne­ver. But I tho­ught may­be that was it. Be­ca­use not­hing was right from that ti­me on. But I ne­ver tho­ught that it co­uld be so­met­hing li­ke tho­se let­ters. Do you know we fo­und a who­le box of them un­der her bed?" His mo­uth qu­ive­red.

  I le­aned for­ward. "Walt, whe­re are they?"

  "Mother bur­ned them."

  Damn. I un­der­s­to­od why. If only we'd known in ti­me. But if that li­ne of in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on was clo­sed, this one wasn't.

  "Did you talk to yo­ur sis­ter Fri­day mor­ning?"

  He tur­ned away from me, res­ted his he­ad on the man­tel for a mo­ment. His sho­ul­ders sho­ok.

  I wa­ited.

  Finally, his fa­ce splotchy, his eyes glis­te­ning, the boy fa­ced me. "No. The last co­up­le of we­eks, it se­emed to be wor­se. I as­ked and as­ked her what was wrong and she wo­uldn't say. I'd told Mom we had to do so­met­hing, may­be get a co­un­se­lor, but Mom was re­al stub­born abo­ut so­me things. She tho­ught it me­ant ad­mit­ting Fran­ci wasn't… wasn't right and ever­y­body's al­ways ac­ted li­ke she was just fi­ne. And ac­tu­al­ly she was fi­ne. She was al­ways swe­et and gen­t­le and gre­at to ha­ve aro­und." He shot me a sharp lo­ok.

  "So she co­uldn't do math or an­y­t­hing, the­re's no law you ha­ve to! At scho­ol she was in the spe­ci­al clas­ses. And that was okay. She was pro­ud of what she did." His fists clen­c­hed. "May­be that's what was worst in the let­ters, tal­king abo­ut how stu­pid she was and how ever­y­body pre­ten­ded to li­ke her pa­in­tings but ever­y­body re­al­ly la­ug­hed abo­ut them, silly blobs of co­lor. And she was al­ways so pro­ud of her pic­tu­res. But she stop­ped pa­in­ting be­fo­re Chris­t­mas. She wo­uldn't pa­int an­y­mo­re. She wo­uldn't tell me why. Then Fri­day mor­ning, it ma­de me mad be­ca­use she saw me and she ran the ot­her way. And I had a me­eting -stu­dent co­un­cil-so I just went on to it. I can't stand thin­king abo­ut it, that I just wal­ked the ot­her way. For a stu­pid me­eting-at a scho­ol whe­re so­me­one wo­uld tre­at Fran­ci that way. I'm not ever go­ing back the­re." He sa­id it harshly, and I knew he me­ant it.

  "So you don't know what Fran­ci did next?"

  "Not exactly. We fi­gu­red it out. She cut clas­ses for the rest of the day. She must ha­ve rid­den her bi­ke ho­me-we fo­und her bo­oks in her ro­om-and she got her di­ary and ro­de her bi­ke back out to the la­ke. On the last pa­ge of her di­ary, she wro­te that she had to drown her­self be­ca­use then she wo­uldn't ha­ve to tell an­y­body abo­ut the let­ters." He sto­od stiff and stra­ight, yo­ung and bit­ter. "If I ever find out who-"

  "We'll find out, Walt. And when we find out, we'll ma­ke su­re the world knows. Now, the thing is, you do know the let­ter wri­ter."

  His he­ad jer­ked up. His eyes bla­zed. "What do you me­an? If I knew-"

  I held up my hand. "Think abo­ut it, Walt. You do know the wri­ter-be­ca­use it is so­me­one at Wal­den Scho­ol. Now, I want you to think. Who-out of all the stu­den­ts-who wo­uld do so­met­hing mon­s­t­ro­us li­ke this?"

  Walt grip­ped the man­tel and tho­ught. I wa­ited pa­ti­ently. Fi­nal­ly, he ga­ve me two na­mes.

  One na­me I didn't know:

  Larry Brown, a high-st­rung clas­sma­te of Fran­ci's. "He's a wreck. His mot­her's be­en mar­ri­ed three ti­mes. I think one of his step­dads-well, so­met­hing kind of bad hap­pe­ned. And Larry got up­set last sum­mer be­ca­use Fran­ci won an art con­test."

  One na­me I did know:

  Brigit Pi­er­ce. Walt stum­b­led over the na­me. "But it's true, Bri­git's kind of me­an. And she al­ways pic­ked on Fran­ci."

  I po­sed the last qu­es­ti­on, the cru­elest qu­es­ti­on. "Okay, Walt. Who might ha­ve it in for you?"

  The Wal­den Scho­ol par­king lot over­f­lo­wed. Lots of sporty Hon­das, smug Vol­vos, sle­ek Mer­ce­des, svel­te Jagu­ars, ja­unty Ran­ge Ro­vers, no­uve­au Ca­dil­lacs. MGs ha­ve many ni­ce qu­ali­ti­es. One is si­ze. I squ­e­ezed next to a fir tree in a slot too small for most cars.

  I slam­med the do­or and hur­ri­ed to­ward the audi­to­ri­um. Stu­dents, many ac­com­pa­ni­ed by pa­rents, we­re stre­aming past me. Ne­ar the audi­to­ri­um I saw the slen­der yo­ung po­li­ce­wo­man who'd ta­ken down na­mes at the bo­ok­s­to­re. Go­od. Cap­ta­in Walsh was ta­king me se­ri­o­usly at last.

  I was hal­f­way ac­ross the jam­med par­king lot when Dan For­rest lo­ped to my si­de. "Mrs. Col­lins, Mr. Selwyn sent me to find you. He wo­uld ap­pre­ci­ate it if you co­uld co­me to his of­fi­ce. The trus­te­es are gat­he­ring the­re be­fo­re the as­sembly."

  Dan tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly shor­te­ned his stri­de to walk with me.

  I won­de­red what mis­c­hi­ef Selwyn in­ten­ded. But I wo­uld find out so­on eno­ugh. Right now I in­ten­ded to ca­pi­ta­li­ze on this unex­pec­ted op­por­tu­nity. Selwyn wo­uld be

  appalled at my qu­iz­zing a stu­dent. He sho­uld ha­ve tho­ught of that be­fo­re he sent one to fetch me.

  I pre­fa­ced it with a fri­endly smi­le. "I sus­pect the­re isn't much that go­es on aro­und he­re that you don't know abo­ut."

  "Oh, well, I'm pretty ac­ti­ve. And I know a lot of pe­op­le."

  We pas­sed a gro­up of girls. One of them cal­led, "Hi, Dan. See you at lunch?"

  He ga­ve her a warm smi­le, and rep­li­ed, "Su­re, Lynne," yet ma­na­ged to be at­ten­ti­ve to me.

  I lo­oked up in­to sap­phi­re-blue, co­ur­te­o­us eyes. "You're vi­ce pre­si­dent of the se­ni­or class?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Ac­tu­al­ly, it lo­oks li­ke I'm go­ing to be pre­si­dent. Walt Hol­lis has qu­it scho­ol. His sis­ter di­ed and I gu­ess he do­esn't want to co­me back be­ca­use it re­minds him of her."

  His vo­ice was ca­su­al. The­re was no sen­se that he had any un­der­s­tan­ding of Walt's des­pa­ir.

  "Tell me a lit­tle abo­ut Walt. Are you fri­ends?"

  "Oh, su­re. I've known him fo­re­ver. His mom and mi­ne play ten­nis to­get­her. Walt's okay. Wants to be a doc­tor. So ever­y­body tre­ats him li­ke he's spe­ci­al."

  "Because Walt wants to be a doc­tor?"

  "I gu­ess."

  "Does he ma­ke go­od gra­des?"

  "A fo­ur po­int. But so do I. I me­an, what's such a big de­al if a guy be­ats you out by only a co­up­le of po­ints on tests?"

  "No big de­al," I ag­re­ed. "Unless you think it is."

  Dan's stri­de didn't check. But his qu­ick si­de­ways glan­ce was star­t­led. "Well, we're both ho­nor so­ci­ety."

  "So you're ta­king Walt's pla­ce as pre­si­dent of the stu­dent co­un­cil."

  "The vi­ce pre­si­dent auto­ma­ti­cal­ly be­co­mes pre­si­dent in the event the of­fi­ce is va­ca­ted." Dan's han­d­so­me yo­ung fa­ce cre­ased in a frown. "Of co­ur­se, we're all ho­ping Walt will chan­ge his mind." He lo­oked down at me ear­nestly. "No­body can be­li­eve the stuff pe­op­le are sa­ying. Abo­ut a bunch of let­ters. But no­body's se­en any, so it kind of ma­kes you won­der…"

  We tur­ned up the si­de­walk to­ward the lo­vely old ho­use whe­re Selwyn of­fi­ced. "Ma­kes you won­der what?"

  Dan shrug­ged. "Well, whet­her the­se let­ters ever hap­pe­ned. May­be it ma­kes Fran­ci's fa­mily fe­el bet­ter to bla­me so­me­body."

  "The let­ters hap­pe­ned."

  We re­ac­hed the top of the steps.

  Dan ope­ned the do­or for me. "No­body's se­en them."

  "Someone has."

  I lo­oked hard, but I didn't see any re­ac­ti­on at all. He ga­zed at me with not­hing mo­re than po­li­te in­te­rest. "Oh. Who's that?"

  "Another stu­dent." I than­ked him and wal­ked in­to the he­ad­mas­ter's of­fi­ce.

  S
elwyn sto­od by the do­or. As I ca­me in­si­de, he clo­sed it. When I saw his sa­tis­fi­ed smirk, I knew I had a fight on my hands.

  Despite the abun­dan­ce of ele­gant Chip­pen­da­le cha­irs, ever­y­body was stan­ding, sta­ring at me. I'm su­re the­re are le­pers who've re­ce­ived war­mer wel­co­mes.

  Selwyn la­un­c­hed his at­tack. "Mrs. Col­lins, we've had a chan­ge in our prog­ram for the as­sembly."