Wakefield College 01 - Where It May Lead

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Although, damn, he did like what he knew.

  * * *

  A STEADY STREAM of alumni arrived from early Friday morning on to pick up the schedule of events that included a map of the wineries on this afternoon’s tour and directions to the golf course that hadn’t existed when they were students here. Madison had had tables set up beneath the trees outside Mem, one for check-in and the other holding a coffee urn and pitchers of lemonade. The day’s heat was already making itself felt, but the huge old trees and the velvet green lawn, still slightly damp from last night’s sprinklers, at least gave an illusion of cool.

  Senator Haywood was an early arrival. Rather than tasting wine, he would be speaking to an upper level political science class that afternoon, in addition to giving a second, open lecture this evening after the reception. Madison had no trouble recognizing him since she’d looked up current images online.

  Silver at the temples and an overall dusting of silver set off his styled dark hair. He had a charming smile she couldn’t help returning.

  He shook her hand, his eyes keen on her face. “You wouldn’t be Guy Laclaire’s daughter?”

  “I am indeed,” she confessed. “Unfortunately, Dad couldn’t be here this weekend. He’s in Tokyo on business.”

  “He’s done well for himself.” He shook his head admiringly. “I saw mention of him in the Wall Street Journal the other day. I’ll make a point of giving him a call.”

  He was clearly making a mental note. She didn’t tell him Dad was stingy with donations, but in this case he might surprise her. His politics were more conservative than hers.

  Haywood introduced his wife, a stylish, attractive woman whose smile was as bright and probably as insincere as her husband’s. Madison chided herself for being a cynic. She wouldn’t have thought any such thing if she hadn’t known he was a politician.

  She talked briefly with the senator about his two speaking engagements and told him how much the students were looking forward to hearing him. She already knew he and his wife were staying at the home of one of the college trustees, who owned a good deal of downtown Frenchman Lake, rather than in a hotel.

  The college president deftly took the senator off her hands and she turned to greet the next arrivals. The woman’s face looked familiar.

  “Let me think. Marcia Skiles?”

  The woman chuckled. “Very good! Marcia Skiles Armstrong now. I’ve remarried since that last reunion.” She introduced her husband, after which they told Madison how excited they were about visiting some of the wineries.

  “We’ve become connoisseurs,” she said, “in our small way.”

  Some of the alumni expressed an intention to play in the informal golf tournament on Saturday morning, but the greatest enthusiasm was expressed for the wine tasting tour. Frenchman Lake wines weren’t yet as acclaimed as Walla Walla Valley wines, but some were beginning to receive high ratings from Wine Spectator and other sources.

  Madison murmured agreement when people waxed rhapsodic over the wine, although she never had picked up on hints of licorice or tannin or wild huckleberry. As far as she was concerned, expensive wines usually tasted better than cheap ones. Full stop. It was safe to say no one would call her a connoisseur.

  She had the comforting thought that Troy probably wasn’t one either. He hadn’t seemed at all interested in the wine tasting portion of the weekend.

  Of course, that might have been because he was focused on security, impossible to provide when the alumni were driving themselves to the many wineries throughout the valley.

  “Any relation to Guy Laclaire?” the latest alumnus in front of her table asked.

  Her gaze dropped surreptitiously to the name tag he’d affixed to the front of his striped polo shirt. It was embarrassing to have forgotten his name quite so quickly.

  Del Trzcinski.

  That was even more embarrassing, as she had also just had him pronounce his name for her.

  She smiled at him. “His daughter.” This was the fifth time someone had asked and she’d had to explain that no, Dad wouldn’t be here this weekend. The day had barely begun. Thank God no one had yet assumed she’d know way more about her father’s acquaintances than she did.

  One man mentioned that he and Guy had been doubles partners on the college tennis team for two years. She knew her father had played varsity all four years at Wakefield. He’d been on the debate team, too, which had reached finals in the national competition his senior year.

  So, okay, she did know something about his years here. More than something—out of pure nosiness she’d looked up his academic record, and learned that Guy Laclaire had graduated with a 3.85 GPA. Not perfect. There were several Bs sprinkled throughout his freshman and sophomore years. All were outside his major, in classes he’d been required to take to demonstrate breadth.

  Still...not perfect. She’d been stunned. As long as she could remember, he’d been driven, impatient with anyone else’s frailties and demanding of perfection. She wondered if he’d hated graduating without a perfect 4.0, or whether he’d actually allowed himself to have fun during his four years at Wakefield.

  Her mind boggled at the idea of her father having “fun.”

  She smiled at the woman who stepped up to the table. “And you are?”

  * * *

  OSTENSIBLY THE EVENING reception at the college president’s house was casual, but Troy had known better than to show up in chinos and polo shirt. A few men did, but their polo shirts had discreet and pricey little logos on the breast. A fair number of the women wore linen, cool and probably also expensive but wrinkled anyway. He wasn’t a clotheshorse; in fact, most of the time he didn’t give a damn what he was wearing. Even so, he couldn’t quite figure out why anyone wanted to wear something that looked like it had been wadded up under the mattress all night long.

  His heart skipped a beat when he caught a glimpse of Madison across the room. Her gauzy little dress with spaghetti straps was the color of a peach picked ripe from the tree. The fabric was airy instead of crisp or wrinkled. With strappy, high-heeled sandals, her legs were nicely displayed. When the crowd shifted and he could no longer see her, he shifted, too, using his shoulders to wedge his way past clusters of attendees sipping cocktails and chattering. He noticed a few faces that had gotten more sun today than they should have. One woman was really red and he winced sympathetically.

  Ah. There was Madison, laughing at something being said by the suave-looking guy leaning into her. The next second, Troy recognized the senator. He was pretty damn sure Haywood’s gaze was locked on Madison’s cleavage and not her face.

  Just like a politician.

  Troy moved to her side and planted his left hand on the small of her back, even though one date, one kiss, didn’t give him any right to be proprietary. At the moment, he didn’t give a damn. “Hey,” he murmured. “Sorry I’m late.”

  Her face brightened with relief or pleasure or both, causing some more strange bumping sensations under his breastbone. “Troy!” She didn’t move away from him. “Oh, good. I was afraid something had come up. Troy, have you met Senator Gordon Haywood yet? Senator, this is Detective John Troyer. You may have known his father, Joseph.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “Sure, sure. I was real sorry to hear that he’d passed away.” Haywood grimaced. “I’ve been paying a little more attention to my cholesterol since then.”

  “Dad ate well and was fit, but he was a smoker,” Troy explained. “Never could quit.”

  “What a shame.” The senator shook his head sorrowfully. “A real shame. He was a good man.”

  Since to the best of Troy’s knowledge, Senator Haywood hadn’t had any contact with Dad in thirty-five years, it was a little hard to figure how he knew Joseph Troyer was a good man. But hey, a guy had to say something.

  The senator excused himself a moment later to clap a hand on a man’s back and exclaim, “Fred! Great to see you.”

  “Creep,” Troy muttered.

&
nbsp; Madison only laughed at him. “Now, how do you know that?”

  “Isn’t the guy married? He won’t make the White House if he’s stupid enough to ogle women like that very often.”

  “I don’t know.” She sounded thoughtful. “Politicians seem to get away with things like that for years before they get caught. Although I was starting to get offended. And, as it happens, he’s not only married, his wife is here.” She tipped her head toward the group the senator had joined.

  Troy saw that the guy now rested his hand on the wrinkled-linen-clad back of a woman thin to the point of looking breakable.

  “In fairness,” Troy conceded, “you have a very fine cleavage.”

  Her eyes widened and she clapped a hand to her chest. “Oh, no. Is this dress too...too...”

  When she failed to come up with a word, he supplied one. “Sexy? No, your dress is pretty and perfect for a hot evening.” He bent his head closer to her ear. “It’s you that’s sexy.”

  She blinked at him, tiny creases appearing between her eyebrows. “Thank you. I think.”

  Troy smiled. “You look beautiful tonight. Don’t worry. He’s a dirty old man.”

  Madison spared a glance the senator’s way. “He’s only fifty-seven. Or maybe fifty-eight.”

  “And married.”

  “Well, yes. He is married. You’re right.” She nodded. “He’s a creep.”

  “Ellen Kenney here?”

  “Yes, holding court by the bay window.”

  Mostly, Troy could see a whole lot of backs. Heads were nodding. The author was presumably doing the talking. Hard to resist, when so many people were hanging on your every word.

  “She actually seems to be really nice,” Madison said. “She and the senator both spoke to students today. I stuck my head into the classrooms. She had the kids enthralled. He had a little more trouble, because the students here tend to be liberal and they were throwing some tough questions at him. He seemed to take it in stride, though.”

  Troy accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “I’d intended to go hear him tonight.”

  Their eyes met and they both laughed.

  “From a security standpoint, I probably should go,” he said reluctantly.

  “Absolutely.” She grinned at him. “You can tell me all about it.”

  They were both laughing again when a particularly penetrating man’s voice cut through the babel.

  “Hard to believe they never arrested anyone for killing Mitch.”

  Madison turned and Troy saw her alarmed gaze meet the college president’s. “Into the fray,” she said softly to Troy, and started briskly toward the speaker.

  Troy followed but hung back, curious how she’d handle this.

  The answer was: very smoothly.

  She joined the group, commented on how shocking it must have been back then to have a fellow student killed right here on campus, then within moments had them rhapsodizing about wine and kidding each other about who was going to play under par in the morning.

  Troy reflected that Madison’s professional instincts and his were exactly opposite. She wanted to stifle all speculation, pretend the whole ugly thing had never happened. When it came to murder, he was all cop. He’d always been especially intrigued by cold cases. There was nothing he’d have liked better than to encourage talk.

  Half the people in this room had known Mitchell King and maybe some of his secrets, assuming he had any. Those same people might conceivably have known the killer, too, assuming you didn’t buy the stranger-who-happened-to-be-passing-through-town theory—which Troy didn’t. It was even possible, he reflected, that the killer was one of these people, although on second thought he decided that was unlikely. If some twenty or twenty-two-year-old kid had been in a rage great enough to drive him to bludgeon Mitchell King to death, you wouldn’t expect that same student to become the kind of alumnus so fond of his college experience he enjoyed regular visits to the campus, now would you? Since he presumably wasn’t a psychopath who enjoyed killing—or at least he was hiding it real well if he was—the guy would be more likely to have clutched his diploma in sweaty hands and sworn never to set foot on this campus again. He probably did his damnedest not even to think about Wakefield College and what he’d discovered about himself while he was here.

  Yeah, that made sense. Troy had been scanning the room as he pondered, his gaze going from face to face. Now his mouth tipped up in a faint smile. Madison wouldn’t be thrilled if she knew what he’d been thinking. Or maybe she’d be okay with it as long as he kept his mouth shut, which he fully intended to do.

  It was damn tempting, though, to reopen that cold case when there were actually some potential witnesses gathered right here rather than spread across the country. Even better, though, when there was a full reunion of King’s classmates.

  Of course, college/town relations were always a little delicate, and that might sour them here in Frenchman Lake for the next quarter century or so. No, Troy wouldn’t get anywhere suggesting any such thing unless he found an interesting end of a string to pull.

  Forget it, he told himself.

  He automatically sought Madison. She stood with her back to him, but he found plenty to admire, anyway. With her hair piled on top of her head, he had a fine view of her slim neck and the delicate string of vertebrae that disappeared beneath the plunging back of the dress. Her shoulder blades were beautifully constructed, too, he decided. And, while the dress didn’t cling quite as well as the red suit she’d worn that first day, it still suggested an ass as lush as the breasts Senator Haywood had leered at.

  She was a lot more interesting than a murder that had happened thirty-five years ago.

  She glanced over her shoulder right then, those warm brown eyes rolling with just a hint of desperation, and he obeyed the summons. He was getting to spend more time with her this evening than he’d expected.

  It had been a while since he’d been able to think smugly, life is good.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE CROWD WATCHED, breathless, as two workmen used crowbars to pry out the foundation stone that hid the time capsule.

  Troy bent his head to place his mouth close to Madison’s ear. “You know, this could be a big oops. What if somebody stole the capsule twenty-five years ago?”

  She allowed herself a small grin. “You think I’m that dumb?”

  Amusement glinted in his eyes. “You checked.”

  “You bet.”

  She hadn’t been about to set all this up only to find, at the penultimate moment, that the capsule had disappeared at any time in the past thirty-five years.

  With a grinding sound, the block of granite was inched backward until it hung out of the foundation so far that Madison held her breath. Finally the two workmen leaped backward and the stone fell, landing with a perceptible thud. Even she jumped a little.

  Troy’s chuckle made her want to stick out her tongue at him. Of course, his poise never wavered. The two of them had positioned themselves near the front, but to one side in the shade cast by a huge, ancient maple tree. Madison felt a little like the wizard of Oz right now, pulling strings from behind the curtain. The designated front man was the president of the college, well accustomed to being on stage.

  Lars Berglund looked like a college president should, with his snowy hair cut stylishly, his blue eyes perceptive, his tall body trim from daily workouts. He had the gift of seemingly focusing all his attention on the one person who was speaking. What could be more flattering? He exuded charm, charisma and brains. It went without saying that he had the requisite background: while a professor of political science and international relations at a couple of different, prestigious private colleges, he had published well-reviewed articles and books, including one that was a standby college text in the area of comparative African politics. He still wrote and published. His personality made him a natural for administration, however. Wakefield felt lucky to have lured him from a larger Midwestern university.

  N
ow he stooped to peer into the dark opening. He murmured to one of the workmen, who handed him a glove. After donning it, Berglund groped within. He allowed a dramatically elongated moment before triumphantly dragging out the rather odd capsule. Made of shiny metal, at first sight it had looked to Madison as if it ought to hold nuclear material or something else space-age and possibly dangerous.

  A few cries of delight, some catcalls and piercing whistles preceded a round of applause as the president set the capsule carefully on the table placed for that purpose. Pleased at the response, Madison turned her head to look around.

  The size of the crowd was augmented by the many family members as well as curious students, administrators and professors. Most had been able to find a place in the shade. Chairs had been set out but were only half-occupied. Most people chose to stand or, in some cases, sit on the grass. She recognized the majority of the alumni in attendance by now. She ought to—she’d tried to talk to all of them. If she hadn’t found them at the reception, she’d sought them out today during the lunch served not far away on Allquist Field.

  Ellen Kenney seemed to have acquired a permanent entourage made up of classmates and students. Senator Haywood and his wife had found a prominent position at the front. Others clustered in relaxed groups, obviously enjoying the production. A few seemed to make a point of standing alone or with only one companion.

  President Berglund put on his dark-framed reading glasses so that he could see the slip of paper Madison had earlier given him. The capsule had not only been mortared into the foundation of Cheadle Hall. It was also closed with a combination lock.

  The president, while joking with the crowd, now dialed the combination. In her determination to dodge any possible embarrassment, Madison had secretly done this in advance, too, although she hadn’t let herself study the contents.

  As near as she was to the front, she heard the click as the lock surrendered. President Berglund rotated the lid to one side and the crowd roared with delight.