Shadows on the Ivy

by Lea Wait

  Maggie stood up and looked out the window of her office, over the campus, toward Whitcomb House. Michael had cheated on her, and she hadn’t known until after he’d died. Wives didn’t always know. Or at least know for sure.

  She and Michael had had such separate lives; he was often on the road during the week for his insurance business; she was away at antique shows or auctions over the weekends. There had been lots of opportunities for Michael to have cheated and for her not to have known. She could have cheated, too, she thought. But adultery had never been even a remote possibility for her. She’d naively believed everything in her marriage was going well.

  Was that the way Dorothy felt? Since Oliver had retired, they spent a great deal of time together. Even their separate projects—his gymnasium, her Whitcomb House—were both on the same campus, only a mile or so from their home. Maggie had never sensed any problem between them. Oliver was openly affectionate with Dorothy and quietly amused with her foibles, such as his going along with her not wanting a bartender Sunday night. A small thing, Maggie thought, but a telling one. Oliver enjoyed spending the money he’d earned, and enjoyed watching Dorothy spend it.

  Did any of this mean he wouldn’t have an affair with a younger woman? Tiffany was attractive and flirtatious. Maggie had seen her in action.

  Would a man like Oliver risk a marriage he seemed happy in, and his reputation in the community, for an affair with Tiffany? It didn’t make sense to Maggie. But, then, adultery hit a little too close to home for her to be rational about it.

  What about Sarah? She had collapsed in Oliver’s home; she had been poisoned there. What did she have to do with this? Tiffany might have had an affair with Oliver. Maggie granted that. She appeared to have had an affair with someone, and Oliver fit the picture: older, married, wealthy. But Sarah? Could she have been having an affair with Oliver as well? She was his stepdaughter, but he didn’t know that. Paul had said Oliver and the women of Whitcomb House. Did he really mean more than one woman? Or possibly even more than two? Could Kayla or Maria or Heather be involved? At first they had been reluctant to share information about Tiffany. But now it felt as though everything they knew was out in the open.

  Maggie needed to talk to Paul. She needed to find out exactly what he’d meant last night. For now she’d keep Tiffany’s briefcase under lock and key.

  And cope with immediate issues. She called back the Pennsylvania promoter; no, she couldn’t do his antique show this weekend. Sorry; yes, he could keep her on his waiting list for other shows. The woman with the Godey’s prints didn’t answer.

  The first new message was from President Hagfield. Would she please make an appointment to see him? As soon as possible. Maggie sighed. Clearly, when the man at the top of the pyramid called, it was a priority. She dialed his number without looking at the other messages.

  “He really wants to see you,” his assistant said. Jennifer was a former student of Maggie’s. “But he’s at lunch right now. Could you come by in about an hour?”

  “Do you know what he wanted to talk about?”

  “I’m not sure, Maggie, but it had to do with Whitcomb House. He’s very upset.”

  “It’s sad, isn’t it?”

  “It is. But to tell the truth, Maggie, Max seems more upset about what the reporters will write about the college than he does about what happened to Sarah Anderson or Tiffany Douglass. Although I’m sure he cares about them.”

  “Of course. And it’s part of his job to keep up the public image of Somerset College.”

  “The newspapers keep calling him. And someone from ABC. Do you think we might be on CNN, too?” Jennifer’s voice implied that being on CNN might make it all worthwhile.

  “I have no idea. I just know that the faster Tiffany’s killer is found, the better things will be for all of us.”

  “And the safer,” Jennifer said. “A lot of professors and students have been calling to ask if we’re going to close the school for a few days. Asking if it’s safe to be on campus.”

  “What are you telling them?”

  “That we’re all saddened by these tragedies, but that Sarah and Tiffany would have wanted us to continue operating Somerset College, keeping the light of learning alive.” Jennifer stumbled a bit on the last l sound.

  “Who wrote that for you?”

  “President Hagfield. He even typed it out himself. It sounds good, doesn’t it? Really professional. Like CNN.”

  “Absolutely, Jennifer. Just like CNN. I’ll be over in an hour, then. In the meantime, I think I’ll go and get some lunch myself.”

  Maggie did a quick calculation. She needed food in the house for her impending houseguests. She could just about make it to a supermarket, pick up the basics, drop them at home, and be back in an hour. Bread and cheese to eat in the car would be her lunch.

  She left a note for Claudia. “Gone to lunch, then to see Max at 1:30. Back after that.” That should cover any questions that came in while she was gone.

  She made a mental list as she put the Black Americana portfolio back in the van with her other prints. Diet Pepsi. Orange juice. Milk. She drank skim, but she remembered Gussie liked 1%. What about Jim? He’d have to drink what they did. Wheat bread—enough so they could make sandwiches to eat at the show this weekend if sales weren’t high enough to splurge on lunch. Ham and cheese for the sandwiches. Honey mustard. Romaine. And breakfasts: marmalade, she thought, and maybe some strawberry jam. Eggs. Bacon, despite the fat content. Maybe turkey bacon. And she’d make lasagna to have after setup Friday night, when they were all tired. Lasagna noodles, ricotta, mozzarella, spinach, sausage, onions, mushrooms, garlic, tomatoes…By the time she’d reached the supermarket she had the weekend meals figured out. If she was lucky, they’d do well enough at the show to eat out Sunday night, and Gussie and Jim were eating with friends Saturday night. But, if plans changed, she’d have options covered. Bless a mind that could multitask. She added a hard roll and some soft blue cheese for her lunch today and pushed her cart toward the checkout line.

  The headline on today’s local newspaper was bold and three columns: “Somerset College Coed Found Dead in Single-Parent Dorm!” Maggie cringed. No wonder Max wanted to see her. It had been her assignment to ensure that Whitcomb House and its students were an asset to the campus community. That, if anything, they provided positive publicity for Somerset College. She picked up a copy of the paper and scanned the article.

  Nothing was included that she didn’t already know. But the article didn’t miss the possible connection to Sarah’s poisoning Sunday night. Or that Oliver and Dorothy Whitcomb had donated Whitcomb House to the college, and that Sarah had collapsed at their home.

  “It couldn’t be Oliver,” Maggie thought. “At least not with Sarah. Even if he would consider poisoning someone…how could he do it in his own home and expect to get away with it?” And yet no one had been arrested as far as she knew. It just didn’t make sense.

  She dropped off the groceries at home, stopping only to make sure anything needing refrigeration was put away, and to give Winslow a special scratch and a bite of salmon. She’d straighten the kitchen later.

  Two blocks from her house she saw a large HOUSE SALE sign. Today she really didn’t have time…but once in a while they were worthwhile. She deserved ten minutes of possibilities, no matter what. This was for her business.

  The sale was in the garage and family room of the house. She glanced through cartons of books. There were a lot of children’s books. Maybe she should start collecting some…No. It was too early. She hadn’t officially decided about adoption yet. But these were in great condition. She hated to leave them. Maggie hesitated and then picked out half a dozen picture books for the children at Whitcomb House.

  At the bottom of a carton of picture books was the leather cover of an old scrapbook. She pulled it out carefully. Scrapbooks could hold nineteenth-century Christmas cards or valentines or advertising cards, and if the contents were beautifully lithographed and not glued
in, they might have value. Of course, she didn’t hope too hard. Scrapbooks could also hold junk or recent memorabilia or pictures of interest only to the owner, not to an antique dealer. Maggie balanced the album on the pile of picture books she’d selected and opened it.

  The album was filled with page after page of carefully dried and pressed seaweeds—or sea mosses, as they were called in the nineteenth century. Drying sea mosses and wildflowers was a Victorian lady’s craft and amusement. But dried plants were fragile; rarely had an album like this survived. Maggie handled it carefully. On the inside cover was handwritten, “Sea mosses I collected on Long Island, summer, 1883. Eloise Hammond.” Provenance!

  They would have to be handled with care, but they could be spray-glued, placed in deep mats, and then framed. They would look spectacular on someone’s wall. And the price was?

  Maggie casually took the album and the picture books to the women behind the cash box. “I have six children’s picture books, and this old album,” she said. “How much will that come to?”

  “Oh, why not a dollar each for the children’s books, and you can have that old album for five. It’s been in my grandmother’s attic for years.”

  Maggie smiled and pulled out $11.

  She’d have to handle these pages carefully, and pay Brad and Steve to do the framing, but there were at least twenty pages of dried sea mosses. She could hang them on one wall at a show and ask $200 each.

  Some dealers didn’t take the time to go to suburban garage sales. Maggie couldn’t help grinning as she carefully put the album on the front seat of her van. Some dealers really missed out.

  Chapter 27

  Gold Fish (Carassius auratus [Linnaeus]). Lithograph of a goldfish, in the style and period of Denton’s fish, c. 1890, but not attributed to a specific painter or engraver. Goldfish originated in China, like their cousins the carp, or koi. Compared with other fish species, goldfish have a long life span. Their hardiness makes them popular in the United States for both aquariums and outdoor ponds. 8 x 11 inches. Price: $60.

  Maggie ate the bread and cheese on her way back to campus. She loved the richness and texture of a soft blue cheese, but it was messy. Before she left the car, she wiped her fingers, and then the steering wheel, with a tissue and dusted the bread crumbs from the driver’s seat. “You’d think I was old enough to eat without making such a mess,” she said to herself. But the bread and cheese had been good, the garage sale had been terrific, and she felt more in control of life than she had an hour before. There was food in her house; she had no classes scheduled for the afternoon. And she’d made a major purchase for Shadows.

  Maggie felt a pang at the wave of self-satisfaction. How could she feel good about life when Sarah was still in the hospital and Tiffany was dead? Life could change so quickly. And for those two young mothers…She hoped Tyler’s grandparents had arrived to smother him with hugs and take care of him. She’d never heard Tiffany say anything negative about her parents, other than that she was too old to have to depend on them. But there was no statute of limitations on parenthood. Today Tiffany’s parents had most likely become de facto parents to their two-year-old grandson.

  After a stop in the ladies’ room to wash up and check her sweater for lingering crumbs of blue cheese, Maggie headed for Max’s office.

  She walked quickly around the corner and almost ran into the large tank of tropical fish Max had installed in his reception area. Above the tank was the late-nineteenth-century print of a goldfish that she and Michael had given Max for his birthday two or three years ago. They’d meant it as a bit of a joke, but Max had triple-matted it and hung it in a place of honor.

  Jennifer waved Maggie in.

  “Maggie. It’s about time. I’ve been trying to contact you all morning.” Max’s usually complacent round face was lined by wrinkles, and the dark shadows under his slightly pink eyes implied he’d had a rough night.

  She looked past him at the medium-folio Currier & Ives Windsor Castle and the Park on the wall behind his desk. Max was proud of that lithograph. Every time Maggie saw it, she remembered reading that the reclusive nineteenth-century poet Emily Dickinson had an identical one hanging in her home. She’d always felt there was a strange connection between those two very different people. Emily Dickinson’s home and Max’s office were each private castles. Few people were allowed to climb the battlements of either.

  “I was teaching one of Linc James’s courses; we trade off once or twice a semester. Seeing a different face keeps the students interested. I called as soon as I got your message.” Maggie didn’t mention that by then Max had been out having lunch. Or that she’d gotten in some grocery shopping while he’d been having what his slightly rosy nose hinted had been a drink or two with his lunch.

  “Jennifer told me. I know.” Max sighed and held out his arms in a gesture of helplessness. “Have you seen the headlines in today’s paper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know it’s all over the media. Every newspaper and television station and wire service out there is carrying a story about Tiffany Douglass. And most of them mention Sarah Anderson, too.” Max sighed again. “Have you any idea what this is doing to the reputation of Somerset College?”

  Maggie almost mentioned what it might be doing to Tiffany’s family, and to Sarah, who had hoped the foster father from her past would stay in her past, but for the moment she held her tongue. Clearly Max had other issues on his mind.

  “I’ve had calls from several members of our Board of Trustees questioning how we could allow this to happen, and asking about their own liability for it, should either of the girls’ families sue. The mayor is talking about the possibility of new zoning regulations to prevent our locating dormitories off-campus…even if they’re just across the street and had already been approved last year. Two of our biggest donors are threatening to cut off funding if we can’t pull this together. Not to mention the students who are talking about dropping out of school. Or the high school guidance counselors who’ve called to tell me they can’t recommend our campus until we can assure them Somerset College provides a safe and healthy environment.”

  Maggie paused. What was there to say? “You’re right. We need to provide a safe environment for the students. And for the professors and administrative staff,” she added, thinking of what Jennifer had said earlier. “I was at Whitcomb House this morning. The police were there, and the students were shocked and scared. Angry that this has happened. We need to promise all our students, especially those at Whitcomb House, that this was an aberration. It won’t happen again. We need to take an active role in working with the police to make sure Tiffany’s killer, and the person who poisoned Sarah, are caught and punished. Soon.”

  “We’re doing all that, of course, Maggie. Don’t you think we are? We talked about that early this morning. I’ve hired extra security guards for the campus buildings, especially the dormitories, and the police have agreed to patrol the campus more often. But until they find the killer, or killers, or until this incident dies down, the entire campus is going to be affected.” Max banged his fist hard against his desk and several pencils rolled off the other side. “After what I’ve done, what we’ve all done, over these years to make Somerset College the respected institution it is, we give an opportunity to six unwed parents and they ruin a reputation that’s taken decades to build.”

  “Max.” Maggie was shocked and couldn’t control the anger in her voice. “It’s hardly Sarah’s or Tiffany’s fault that they were victims. We’ve been giving them a chance most colleges wouldn’t have even considered—a chance to pull their lives together and give them, and their children, a better future. That’s what you’ve been telling the media all fall. We can’t turn around and blame these horrors on the victims!”

  “Don’t be so simplistic and sentimental, Maggie. This isn’t a romantic little drama where everyone walks off into the sunset hand in hand. We’ve never had this sort of problem before. If we hadn’t opened our doors
to those sorts of people, this wouldn’t have happened. Right now, because of two irresponsible young women, the name Somerset College is synonymous with fear and violence and distrust and is known for promoting the advancement of unwed parents.”

  “Max!” Maggie was incredulous. “Stop talking about them as if they’re criminals! As if one mistake has colored their entire futures! You’re being totally insensitive and unfeeling.” She steadied her voice a bit. “And besides, it’s temporary. As soon as the police have this tied up, people will forget.”

  “They’re going to forget now, so far as I can make them.” Max stood up and pointed at her. “Maggie, you’re in charge of Whitcomb House. I want you to tell everyone still living there to leave. I want the house closed.”

  Maggie stood up, too. She was slightly taller than Max, but he had the power advantage of his position, and of the wide mahogany desk between them. “You can’t do that! Some of them have no other place to go!”

  “That’s their problem! I don’t care what you tell them. I want the students out of there this week.” Max sat back in his chair. “They have tuition scholarships. They’re welcome to continue as students. But I don’t want them living on campus. I don’t want any children in our dormitories! Dorms should be for adult students, not for preschoolers. We have a day-care center. That’s already going a bit too far. If someone has children, then they’re responsible for caring for them. Not us. Not me. Not Somerset College.”

  Maggie was silent for a moment. “Have you talked with Dorothy and Oliver Whitcomb about this?”

  “Right now I’ve had enough of Dorothy Whitcomb’s plans for the morally deficient of the universe. The last I heard, their home was considered a crime scene. Right now the Whitcombs are not exactly an asset to Somerset Community College either.”