Livingston was ushered into Crane’s private office, a wood-paneled room covered with bookshelves whose volumes testified to the scholarly mind of the headmaster. In his early sixties, Crane looked like a human thermometer, with his pencil-thin body, ruddy complexion and generous head of silver hair.
Livingston apologized for the intrusion. “Don’t like to simply burst in,” he explained as he sat down in a reasonably comfortable chair near Crane’s desk. In Livingston’s eight years in Oxford, he and Crane had become close friends.
“You never burst in, Nigel,” Crane told him, “you come without phoning because you’re dealing with something that can’t be put off.” He leaned back in his wide leather chair and folded his long sinewy hands. “As my American students would say, ‘What’s up?’”
Livingston decided to get to the point without preamble. “I want your honest, absolutely confidential opinion of Philip Whitcomb.”
Crane shrugged. “Absolutely confidential?”
“Of course.”
“Then I have to say,” Crane hesitated, “that it’s hard to say. A good, even very good teacher. Knows his subject. Loves it. The man is transformed when he discusses or reads poetry. Almost a visionary aura about him. Too much, for my taste. After all, the poets were mere mortals. I doubt they read their own poetry with all the histrionics Philip manages to contrive. But I do know he’s made students whose idea of poetry was of the ‘Roses are red, Violets are blue’ category begin to understand the concept of what makes a poem a classic. For that I am grateful, and students ought to be so.
“On the other hand, outside the classroom I find him quite dull. Can’t speak without blushing or stuttering, all wrapped up in his flower garden . . .I’m sure he’d rather plant flowers than eat. How he managed to get engaged to be married I’ll never know. I suspect Valerie did all the courting, not the other way around.”
“My impression exactly.” Livingston weighed his next question, then asked it carefully. “If Philip is so persuasive in class, does he have any problems with students falling in love with him?”
Crane’s face darkened. “Not anymore.” “Not anymore?” Livingston pounced on the words. “What do you mean?”
The headmaster obviously wished he had not been so blunt. “Perhaps I’m being unfair. After all, it was a long time ago. Eleven years, as a matter of fact. Philip was still quite young then, in his early thirties, I should think. A student started following him around like a puppy. He was flattered, I gather, and spent private time with her— something absolutely forbidden. There must be no individual relationships between students and teachers at Saint Polycarp’s. Apparently Philip tired of the girl and started avoiding her. You can imagine how I felt when she burst into my office and announced she was carrying his baby.”
Livingston let out a soundless whistle. “Was she?” “No. She was a highly emotional, even hysterical girl. Fortunately for us, she had made the same accusations about a teacher at a previous school. It wasn’t hard to get the truth from her. Her relationship with Philip had been confined to some bike riding and picnics. Even so, it could have been a scandal, even a disaster, for the school, if she had persisted in her accusations. I came within an inch of sacking Philip, but he pleaded for his job. You must realize this position suits him exactly. He’s teaching a subject he loves, he has acres and acres of property to garden and he’s obviously Lady Exner’s heir.”
“I would suppose he is,” Livingston agreed.
“I warned him most strongly that if even a hint of involvement with a student occurred again, he was out, and with a highly prejudicial reference.”
“I see. You’re quite sure that was eleven years ago.”
“Very sure. I remember exactly because it was the year before the Popolous girl disappeared. At the time of all the unfortunate publicity about the ’Greek girl who never returned to class,’ I kept thinking how it would have been the end of Saint Polycarp’s if one year before a student had become pregnant by a teacher or even persisted in her claim that she was. As it is, I’ve been called several times this week by local papers asking for my comments on the discovery of Athena Popolous’s body.” The headmaster turned penetrating eyes on Livingston. “I realize you can’t disclose why you’ve asked about Philip, but I hope you understand that I’m responsible for five hundred students. Perhaps you should consider whether it is my responsibility to know what is going on.”
Livingston did not hesitate. There was no question Headmaster Crane had residual anger, even contempt, for Philip for the scandal he could have caused St. Polycarp’s. Without proof it was unfair even to suggest that he might have had any kind of relationship with Athena Popolous. “For the moment we are simply doing routine questioning.”
The headmaster’s sardonic expression told Livingston that routine questioning was a feeble cover for a purposeful investigation. For the second time that afternoon, Livingston left a meeting with the distinct impression that his absence was more honored than his presence.
At headquarters Livingston was informed that there were further developments in the Popolous case. The pockets of Athena’s jacket had been lined with plastic. One of them had a hole on the inside. The forensic staff had found a matchbook from the Bull and Bear that had fallen through the hole, jammed deep into the lining of her coat. It had been well preserved. Scrawled inside the matchbook were two letters—B.A.—and three numbers—315.
He went into his private office, settled at his desk, and wearily rubbed his head. Athena Popolous had been in the Bull and Bear on the night she disappeared. Did she write in the matchbook that night, or had it been in her pocket for months? Were the letters someone’s initials and a meeting time? Was it part of a license plate?
Somehow Livingston felt that this information was related to her disappearance and death.
AT SEA
VERONICA SCOOPED UP the Daily Program from the dresser and sat down on her bed. “Regan, we must hurry and decide what activities we will join today. It’s five before eleven, and there are several here that start at eleven o’clock.”
“What are the choices, Veronica?” Regan asked as she thought longingly of relaxing downstairs in a deck chair by the pool, reading a book and observing the activities of her fellow inhabitants of this microcosm known as the Queen Guinevere.
“Well, let’s see. There’s a bridge lecture which doesn’t interest me, a computer lecture which would do me no good . . . how to detect the early stages of plantar’s warts as taught by a podiatrist . . . certainly not before lunch. Aha! Here we go. A financial planning seminar about the different styles of money management. As Sir Gilbert used to say, money can’t buy you happiness, but at least it pays for everything else.” Veronica laughed and jumped up, reaching for her hair spray.
“I really don’t know that much about money matters. Philip has hired an accountant for me who balances my checkbook. But it’s high time I learned a bit more. Besides, this is probably one of the few lectures that will attract more men than women.”
“The truth comes out, Veronica,” Regan teased as she opened the terrace door and squinted at the brilliant sunlight.
“Ah, yes, well . . . afterward we can have lunch out on the Lido Deck and then proceed to the psychic’s session,” Veronica continued. “I’ve had my chart done several times by various astrologers and I always welcome a new voice to predict my future. And then of course there’s a bingo game at four-thirty in the Knights Lounge.”
Having every minute accounted for reminded Regan of Girl Scout camp. Twenty years ago she and her buddy Sally had been admonished by their Scout leader for taking longer than the schedule permitted to collect kindling wood for the campfire stew. And when they returned to civilization Luke and Nora were pulled aside at the bus stop by the disgruntled troop leader who informed them of Regan’s poor twig-gathering skills, which threw off the schedule of all the girls and left no time to bug bomb the latrines before dark. And to think that Regan was one of the two in
the troop who could boast record-setting sales of Girl Scout cookies. The other one was a pint-sized nudge who insisted it was unfair that Regan sell them to people who came to the funeral parlor for wakes. Regan had just gotten lucky that one of the ancient Sheas had died the week of the sale.
Down in the boardroom about a dozen people had gathered for the financial seminar and more were wandering in. As Veronica led the way to the front of the room, Luke turned around and gave Regan a quick wink.
“I think that nice-looking man is flirting with you,” Veronica whispered.
She doesn’t miss a thing, Regan thought as they grabbed two places in the front row. Luke was two seats behind and Regan could feel him smirking. Okay, Dad. Just you wait. You’ll see.
Hand in hand, Mario and Immaculata entered the forward door of the boardroom and waved a hello.
“So you’re here to figure how to spend your travelers’ checks too, huh?” Mario chuckled. “The missus and I won a few bucks in the casino last night and we thought we’d learn how to manage it.”
“All three dollars that’s left of it,” Immaculata beamed as she held up a shopping bag. “Mario bought me some new clothes upstairs in the promenade. I wanted to buy a few things for Concepcione and Mario the Third, but big Mario said no way, he wanted to spend it all on me.”
“Could everyone please take a seat?” A bespectacled young man with blond hair and a somber Brooks Brothers suit started to distribute folders to everyone as he introduced himself. “My name is Norman Bennett and I am a financial consultant and portfolio manager. I’ll be spending the next few days with you helping you set up your investment objectives.”
Veronica leaned over and with a stage whisper that could have been heard deep in the engine room declared, “He’s rather handsome, Regan. Maybe he’s available.”
Mortified, Regan looked down and leafed through the questionnaire inside the folder. I don’t really know what I think about the state of the United States economy in the long run. It’s enough of a challenge to get my own taxes done. What would I do if I inherited a million dollars today? I’d hire a seaplane to come get me.
She glanced around the room to see which other passengers had come to learn financial wizardry. A sprinkling of young couples, honeymoon types, were scattered through the audience. But Veronica was right. Of the two dozen or so in the room, at least three quarters were men. Again, Regan made eye contact with Luke. He smiled and discreetly pointed to Norman Bennett. Clearly he had overheard Veronica sizing up the financial guru.
Veronica hissed, “Regan dear, Mr. Bennett is about to begin. Do pay attention.”
I can’t wait, Regan thought, as she caught Cameron Hardwick coming in and settling himself in the last row. He must be checking out the competition, she decided as Norman Bennett cleared his throat.
“The setting of investment objectives for a substantial pool of assets is not only important, but vital. Yes, vital. However, it has historically been vastly complicated by misunderstandings due to ...”
Oh my God, Regan thought.
A half hour later, as the droning continued with only brief respites to draw graphs on the blackboard, Veronica was still perched on the edge of her seat, shaking her head in passionate agreement with all of Norman Bennett’s points of light. Regan was fighting to blink the sleep from her eyes and keep an interested look on her face.
“And now for our question-and-answer period. Please feel free to pick my brains.” Bennett’s lips pursed and curved upward in a muscular convulsion, an expression that brought Gomer Pyle to mind.
No questions, please, please, Regan prayed, tapping her feet on the carpeted floor of the boardroom.
Veronica leapt from her seat.
“Mr. Bennett, you have been discussing the attractive return of twenty-year bonds. In your opinion, would they be a sound investment for one of my uncertain years?”
Regan heard a giggle from one of the honeymooners and turned around to glare.
Bennett cleared his throat yet again. “There are so many wonderful areas in which to invest that I would prefer to have you complete the questionnaire and return it before we go into specifics.”
Score one for Bennett, Regan thought.
The next question came from Mario Buttacavola. “You made some interesting points about the possibilities for investing in Eastern Europe. I heard something about a big Russian truck company that wants foreign capital. Do you think that’s safe?” He did not give Bennett a chance to answer. “Say, I’ve got a good idea,” he boomed. “There’s someone here, Cameron Hardwick, who sits at our table, and he’s a big financial expert. Maybe both of you could give us your opinions. That would be real interesting.”
“You are, of course, referring to the Boris and Vanya trucking company, which is following the example of its biggest competitor by offering to sell forty-nine percent of its stock to foreign investors. I’d be very interested to hear what Mr. Hardwick has to say about this.” Bennett sounded genuinely enthusiastic.
Mario was obviously pleased to have the floor. “Well, Cameron just came back from checking out the Eastern European countries for investment possibilities for his private clients. What do you say, Cameron?” he asked, turning to the back of the room.
All heads turned their gaze on Hard wick. He remained in his seat and waved away the question. “I’d rather hear what you have to say about it.”
Mario said persuasively, “Oh, come on, Cameron. We’re not asking you to talk about your clients. Let me put it this way. Would you consider this a good buy generally?”
Hardwick stood up and gripped the chair in front of him. “I deal with my clients one-on-one. I think that Mr. Bennett is the one you came to hear.” Clearly he was forcing a smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” He strode from the room.
Bennett broke the uneasy silence that followed. “It has been my experience that most of my financial colleagues enjoy putting forth their views. However, we must respect Mr. Hardwick’s wish not to do so. Now in my opinion ...”
Ten minutes later, as they were leaving the boardroom, Mario and Immaculata joined Regan and Lady Exner. “Is that Hardwick guy some kind of stiff or what?” Mario asked. “You want to know something—I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts he never heard of that company. In my book that guy is either dumb or a phony.”
SYLVIE WANDERED THROUGH the Astolat Lounge, the Knights Lounge and the Lancelot Bar before she located Milton Wanamaker and his ever-present sister, Violet Cohn, sipping a Bloody Mary in the glassed-in section of the Lido Deck. On her third casual glance around the room she managed to meet Milton’s eye. With a dazzling smile she made a beeline for his table.
“Enjoying our beautiful weather today?” she asked as she placed one hand on the empty chair between Milton and his sister.
“The patch behind my ear fell off last night and I woke up feeling queasy. There’s nothing worse than motion sickness. I still haven’t gotten my sea legs and I’m not feeling myself,” Violet complained.
That could only be an improvement, Sylvie thought as Milton quickly rose to his feet.
“Please join us for a drink.” With one hand he pulled out the chair for her, with the other he signaled for the waiter.
“What would you like, Sylvie?”
“Same as you. I’d love a Bloody Mary.”
“Ours is nonalcoholic,” Violet announced, her tone and expression clearly disapproving.
“That’s known as a Bloody Shame,” Sylvie said airily.
“I agree,” Milton said heartily. When the waiter came he ordered two Bloodys. He looked at his sister. “Violet?”
“I just want plain tomato juice. This has much too many spices. The patch fell off my ear last night—”
Sylvie noticed the look of resignation on Milton’s face as he interrupted, “And we’ll also have a plain tomato juice.”
Last night Milton had asked her to dance while his sister was in the ladies’ room. Now as Sylvie crossed her legs, she quietly noted hi
s lean frame under the expensive sports shirt, the blue eyes, intelligent with a slight twinkle, and the well-barbered white hair that framed the bald dome he made no effort to conceal, thank God. Sylvie had met too many of the type who grow hair long on the sides and then, in an attempt to defy gravity, comb it back up and over their scalp, plastering it into place. She silently prayed Milton wasn’t planning to attend the hair-replacement seminar this afternoon. She now caught his frankly admiring gaze.
He likes me, she thought, and I like him. Don’t blow it, she warned herself.
Last night when they had danced to “Satin Doll,” they had hardly spoken. Sylvie had enjoyed the rare pleasure of dancing with an attractive man who didn’t have two left feet. She had intuitively known that Milton Wana-maker was not someone who wanted a woman chattering in his ear over the music. They had just sat down at his table adjacent to the dance floor and exchanged primary information, the fact that she was from Palm Springs and a widow, that he was from Beverly Hills and a widower, when his sister Violet, whom he had just identified as a Miami resident, emerged from the powder room.
“I think I’m having a reaction to the patch, Milton,” she had informed him, virtually ignoring Sylvie. “The warning says that it may cause dizziness and blurred vision. I believe I’m experiencing that. Will you please take me back to my stateroom?”
That had been the end of her romantic foray last night. Sylvie had seen it before. Sisters who were self-appointed watchdogs for their eligible brothers. Even after she had married Harold, Sylvie had never been able to break the ice between her and his sister Goldie. A sister-in-law could be far worse than any mother-in-law. And tended to be around forever.
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