by Lea Wait
“Sorry to bother you when you’ve got so much on your mind.” Tiffany put her pile of books and her brown leather briefcase next to Maggie’s guest chair and sat down.
“Not a problem. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, too.”
“You have?” Tiffany’s straight back scrunched down a little.
“Your grades have been slipping, Tiffany, at least in my class. I haven’t had a chance to check with your other professors. But you’ve also been missing some classes. Like your ‘Myths in American Culture’ seminar—both last Friday and this morning.”
“Tyler’s had a cold, Professor Summer. I’ve been busy. I won’t skip any more classes. I promise.”
“Try not to, Tiffany.” Maggie didn’t remember any of the Whitcomb House kids having been sick recently, but children did catch colds easily. And hadn’t Kayla said she was the only one at the house this morning? Still, she’d give Tiffany the benefit of the doubt. This time. At least until she checked with colleagues to see how Tiffany was doing in her other classes. “I wouldn’t want to see you lose your scholarship.”
“Oh, I won’t,” Tiffany said, sitting up straight again. “I know Oliver and Dorothy Whitcomb have faith in me, and I won’t let them down.”
“You wanted to see me about something else, then?”
“About Sarah. I didn’t want to say too much to the cops. I don’t know what they’re looking for, but I don’t appreciate being pulled out of math class and grilled in front of the whole student body.”
“In front of…?”
“In front of the Student Union, actually. And everyone knew they were cops. Cops aren’t exactly my favorite people, Professor Summer.”
“Those detectives are trying to find out who poisoned Sarah. They’re doing their jobs. You need to cooperate with them, Tiffany.”
“I don’t know anything that would help them!”
“They’re the ones to decide that.”
“I guess. But no way do I like their style. That’s why I came to you.”
“Me?”
“I figured you’d know what I should say. And I’d rather talk to you than them anyway.”
“Telling me something won’t mean you can avoid telling the police, Tiffany.”
“But maybe you can tell me what’s important for them to know, and what’s just my business or Sarah’s business and has nothing to do with them.” Tiffany paused. “One cop said they searched our rooms today!”
“I heard.”
“What happened to our right to privacy?”
“I assume they had a search warrant. And they’re trying to figure out what happened to Sarah’s right to live a safe life.”
Tiffany’s shoulders fell. “You’re right. But will you talk with me?”
“Of course I’ll talk with you. But if you know something that would be helpful to the police, even if it’s something that seems very minor, then you need to talk to them, too.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll talk to the cops. If they ask me again.”
Maggie waited. Tiffany pushed up the sleeves on her sweater, recrossed her legs, then began. “Sarah’s my roommate, you know, and that’s worked out fine. I have a lot to do”—Maggie translated that as I’m not around a lot—“ and Sarah is good with Tyler.” Sarah took care of Tyler as often as Tiffany did. “Sarah doesn’t talk a lot about her childhood. I guess it was rough, growing up in foster care, and then finally being placed for adoption and having your parents divorce and you ending up back in the system.”
“Sarah never told me she’d been adopted.”
“Oh, yeah. Or pre-adoption, or something. Her bio parents signed papers so she could be adopted when she was about four, and she was placed with a family almost immediately. An infertile couple.”
The first choice for adoptive placements, Maggie thought. Of course. “I thought she had grown up in foster care.”
“She did. Most of it.” Tiffany shook her head. “She never actually laid out a timeline for me, or anything, but I know she was in foster care before she was placed for adoption. Anderson was the name of those parents. They wouldn’t tell her what her birth family’s name had been, if they knew. She was with them for a couple of years, I think, but they got divorced just before the adoption was supposed to be finalized. A real mess. Her mom and dad both swore they loved her, but neither of them wanted her after they separated. Terrific people. For some reason she kept their last name when she went back into foster care. Courts can’t make parents love their kids. I think she had four or five different families after that.”
“That must have been hard on her.”
“It was. She hated most of the foster families.” Tiffany hesitated. “I think she was abused by an older foster brother when she was about twelve. And then she was moved to a family that was very strict and religious, and they said she was sinful. She jokes sometimes about the devil in her. And there were bad problems in her last foster home. I don’t know exactly what they were, but Sarah left as soon as she could and once told me she never wanted to drive through Princeton. She was afraid she’d see him again.”
“Him?”
“Her foster father, I guess. All I know is that when we first met each other—you know we lived together for a couple of months before we came here? Well, we were with a friend who wanted to do an errand in Princeton, and Sarah refused to go. She said no way she’d go near there. Not even to pick up dry cleaning!”
“How did you and Sarah meet?”
“She was a waitress at a diner in Somerville. I used to work down near Atlantic City, at a supermarket. Then I was transferred up here, and I needed an apartment. She’d put an ad up on the bulletin board at the diner asking for a roommate to share with a single parent and her daughter. I answered the ad and—that was it!”
“You both ended up here.”
“Sarah told me about the Whitcomb House program. One of the customers in the diner told her about it, and she’d applied and been accepted. After she told me, I figured I’d apply, too. It seemed a perfect way to get a new start. We were lucky both of us got interviews and were accepted.”
“Tiffany, Sarah’s doctor asked me if anyone knew who Aura’s father was. Perhaps he should be notified. Do you know who he is?”
“No way. She was really bitter about him. She didn’t want him in her life. I tried to get her to call him, to tell him she’d sue for child support. She and Aura deserve that. I’m suing Tyler’s father now. He was my boss at the supermarket. He helped Tyler and me for a while, but then his wife found out about it and the checks stopped and he had me transferred to Somerset County. As far away from him as he could manage. He gave me some money for moving expenses. He wanted me gone from the area. Out of his sight. And his wife’s sight. But I’m not going to let him forget he has a son. No way. Tyler is his kid, and he’s going to support him. I have a lawyer working on it.”
“But Sarah didn’t want to do that.”
“No chance. I thought at first she’d do it. I even gave her the name of my attorney. Not the woman you brought in to tell us to have wills made out, and powers of attorney, and that stuff. A real high-powered lawyer. The kind who advertises on TV and promises results. But Sarah wimped out. She wouldn’t go through with it. Even though I told her it would be good for Aura. She’d have more money, and Aura’d know who her father was. That could be important to her someday.”
“Where is your lawyer, Tiffany?”
“Princeton.”
The envelope Kayla had seen in Sarah’s wastebasket had been from a law firm in Princeton. “Just before Sarah passed out she said the name Simon. Does that name mean anything to you?”
Tiffany shook her head slowly. “No. Nothing.”
“The police think Sarah was poisoned. Do you have any idea who would do such a thing to her?”
“I haven’t thought of anyone. She wasn’t like me, you know? She never made trouble. She always did what she was supposed to do. She was a good mother. And she’d made it tot
ally on her own. Aura’s father was never part of the picture, from the time she was pregnant. She told me she’d taken off as soon as she knew she was pregnant. Must have been rough for her. At least I had a family to live with for a while, and then Tyler’s dad gave us some money. Sarah never had any help. She wants to teach kindergarten, and that takes a four-year degree and certification. It’s not easy. Sarah should go after Aura’s father.”
“You’re sure she didn’t contact that lawyer.”
“She said she wouldn’t do that with the last breath in her body.” Tiffany paused. “She will be all right, won’t she? I mean, everyone at Whitcomb House has some problem in their past. Or even their present—like Maria, who’s always following that idiot photographer around, hoping he’ll drop his new girlfriend and go back to her. And the guy I’m suing so Tyler can get some money. That guy’s pretty mad, you can believe.” Tiffany smiled confidently. “But I’m not like Sarah. I’m not going to sit still and let life kick me around. There are people who do, and people who don’t, Professor Summer. And I’m one of the doers. Sarah is someone people do things to.”
Chapter 16
Large eggs, untitled. German lithograph by A. Reichgert; pattern of twenty-one brown-and-gray-
speckled life-size birds’ eggs, all identified (in German) by species. 11 x 15 inches. Price: $75.
Enrico’s was a small restaurant with a classically stereotypical Italian decor, including large, gaudily framed color photographs of Mount Vesuvius and the Colosseum, a selection of Italian wines in the window, and red-and-white tablecloths with candles in Chianti bottles on the small tables that would have been appropriate for an outdoor café or piazza. The walls could have been improved by hanging some large eighteenth- or nineteenth-century etchings or engravings instead of the travel posters, but the heady aroma of garlic and oil and cheeses emerging from the kitchen was definitely tempting.
Paul was at the bar when Maggie got there. Had he come directly here after they’d talked? In any case, their table was waiting, in a quiet corner as far as possible from either the kitchen or the bar.
“You must try some of their house wine; it’s really an amazing valpolicella.” Paul smiled at Maggie over their menus.
“Remember, I have to work tonight.”
“What difference can a little wine make? Loading a van is physical work; you’ll be more relaxed after a glass or two, and the work will go much faster.” He gestured at the waiter. “Bring us a bottle of the house red, please! Now I won’t force you to drink it, Maggie, but you do have to taste it.”
Maggie fought the impulse to override his order and ask the waiter for a diet soda. But maybe a little wine would be relaxing. She was exhausted, between not sleeping much last night and a stressful day. She’d called Dr. Stevens before she’d left her office. He’d called her back from his home. Sarah’s condition hadn’t changed, and he hadn’t gotten back the toxicology report yet.
Paul raised his glass to Maggie. “To new friends.”
She touched her glass to his. “New friends.” He’d been right; the wine was better than most house wines. She took a second sip and smiled.
“See? The wine is already working its magic. You’re not frowning anymore.”
“Was I frowning?”
“You were looking troubled. I know you must have Sarah Anderson on your mind. I can’t believe I moved to Somerset County from New York City, where I never personally encountered any violence, and only weeks after I arrive in New Jersey someone is poisoned at a cocktail party I’m attending.” Paul signaled to their waiter again and ordered an appetizer of fried calamari with a spicy tomato sauce for them to share.
“Have you bought a home out here?” she asked. He hadn’t asked if she liked calamari, but it was one of her favorites.
“Just an apartment so far. Since my divorce.”
Maggie recalled hearing Paul had been divorced at least twice.
“I don’t want to commit a lot of money for more room than I need. I’m a typical bachelor. I eat out. I have friends in the city. I don’t entertain much. Why would I need a house?”
Paul poured himself another glass of wine and added some to Maggie’s glass.
Why, indeed, would a bachelor need a house? Although Maggie was now single, and she seemed to have no trouble filling her four-bedroom home. “Have you been divorced long?”
“About a year.” Paul hesitated, as if he wasn’t certain how much he wanted to share. “She left me. It was a complicated situation. It’s over, and we both have our freedom.” He returned the question. “I heard your husband died about a year ago.”
“Last December. Right after Christmas.”
“Then the holidays may be difficult for you. Perhaps we could spend more time together then?”
Was Paul pushing? Or was he just being considerate? “I have lots of friends, and I don’t mind being alone,” she countered, knowing that sounded a bit prim. But how candid about her personal life should she be with a colleague? She ordered fettuccine; he ordered spaghetti. “You wanted some advice about teaching.”
“Your students seem so excited about learning, and I heard there’s already a waiting list for one of your spring courses. In my classes I have students falling asleep. What kind of magic do you work?”
Maggie took another sip of wine and another piece of calamari. The wine was definitely bold. So, she decided, was Paul. She just hadn’t decided whether she liked his style. “No magic. Talk loud; balance lectures with discussions. And call on students whether they’re prepared or not. They learn to be prepared.”
“I’ve heard you show pictures in your classes.”
“When it makes sense, I use prints to illustrate eighteenth- and nineteenth-century ideas or events. I sometimes play music, too. Adult audiovisuals. Some students seem to understand more, and retain more, when they see something, others when they hear it. So if we’re talking about the jazz age, I play jazz. If we’re talking about myths of the American frontier, I show prints of the frontier. And I have my students give short oral reports on different topics. They’d rather listen to each other than to me. And that’s one way to bring the classroom information into their world. For example, when discussing the Civil War I might assign one student to be a Charleston cotton broker; one a plantation owner; one a Boston slave trader; one a London cotton-mill owner; one a slave on a plantation; one a member of Congress from Pennsylvania. Then I have them debate slavery, presenting only the perspectives of whoever they are.”
“And they do it?” Paul poured himself another glass. Maggie’s was still almost full.
“Some are shy; and some do more research than others. But, especially in the smaller classes, it often works better than my presenting a lecture on economic issues of the 1850s. The debate is more memorable for the students; they internalize the information as they hear it discussed.”
“Fascinating. I’ve been staying up nights preparing long lectures and was disappointed that my students looked bored,” Paul said sincerely. “Maybe what I need to do is relax and turn more class time over to the students.”
Maggie took a bite of her fettuccine Alfredo. Sinfully rich, but delicious. She nodded to the hovering waiter to add some freshly ground pepper. “Try consciously varying your voice level, too. And don’t read your lectures. Break them up. Read a quotation in the voice of the writer or speaker. Ask questions. Walk around. Do anything but just talk at the students. Especially the students in evening classes. Most of them have full-time jobs; they’ve already worked a full day, and they’re tired. They’re here because they want to learn, they want to get a degree, and they want to apply what they learn at college in their workplaces. So if you can connect nineteenth-century White House political maneuvering to today’s office politics, or make your students think about what decisions they themselves would have made at a particular point in history, then your topic will mean more to them.”
“You make it sound so simple, Maggie. I was separating my lif
e in business from my life teaching. Based on what you’ve said, maybe I could use some of my corporate experiences to illustrate points I’m trying to make.” Paul smiled and raised his glass to her. “Oliver was right when he said I should talk with you.”
“Oliver suggested you talk with me?”
“I hope you don’t mind. He and I have known each other for years.”
“I’d heard rumors that he helped you get your job here.” Was she going too far? But Maggie was curious, and the wine was having an effect. With Paul refilling her glass occasionally she must have had two glasses by now. At least. Certainly enough to feel warm and relaxed.
Paul nodded and took another bite of his spaghetti puttanesca. “He introduced me to Max Hagfield, and the rest, as they say, is history. I was bored with corporate life—long hours, stress, and the feeling I wasn’t contributing anything to society but a decimal point in a bottom line. I had a master’s in history and a few courses toward my doctorate as well as an MBA. Oliver knew there was an opening here. And—voilà! But knowing a little about a subject is very different from teaching it.”
“If you understand that, then you’ve taken a major step toward being an excellent teacher.” Paul might be full of lines and stories, but he was trying to fit into the college community, and she wanted to help him. “How do you like your new life so far?”
“Very much. I miss New York, and my friends there, although I do visit on weekends. And I haven’t quite gotten the hang of this teaching thing yet. But with time, your help, and a little patience from my students, I’m sure I’ll be able to do it. The students are remarkable. Most of them are here because they want to learn.”