Shadows on the Ivy

by Lea Wait

  Maggie

  She clicked on SEND. Sweet and breezy. That was her. She frowned. Should she have told him what was really happening? But at least she wasn’t ignoring him. If she told him about Tiffany’s death, and Sarah’s poisoning, and her office being trashed, he’d worry, and there was nothing he could do, even if he were here. Although she could sure use a hug. Or three.

  She thought of Paul’s hug last night. Despite everything, for a moment she had felt warm, and safe. And maybe more…

  She shook off that feeling, headed for the kitchen, and started pulling out the ingredients for lasagna. She must be crazy. Feeling safe when she was with someone who was obviously hiding information that might lead the police to a killer. Why should she feel comforted just because a man hugged her? It certainly wasn’t logical. She had just begun layering sausage, sautéed mushrooms, and tomato sauce with the spinach and cheeses and noodles when the telephone rang. She wiped her hands on a nearby dishtowel and picked up the phone.

  “Dorothy!” Maggie glanced at the clock. “Yes, it’s important. I could get to the Somerset Hotel in half an hour. Could you meet me in the bar?”

  Chapter 30

  Sparrow Hawk. Pair of hawks; one on branch and one looking out from hole in tree. Sparrow hawk egg and maple leaves in foreground. Lithograph, 1882, from Nests and Eggs: Birds of the United States, by Thomas G. Gentry, published by J. A. Wagenseller, Philadelphia. 8.5 x 11.5 inches. Price: $75.

  Dorothy was waiting for her at a small, round table in the oak-paneled hotel bar, hair immaculate as usual, dressed in an elegant pale pink pants suit. Maggie smoothed her wrinkled navy slacks and wished she’d checked to make sure there were no tomato stains on her navy-and-white sweater.

  “Sherry?” Dorothy offered, gesturing at her own glass.

  Maggie gave in to temptation. “Dry Sack, please. On the rocks with a twist.” Thoughts of Diet Pepsi disappeared when a bottle of Dry Sack was near. At least when the day had been as long and dreadful as this one. “Paul told me your house is now a crime scene and you’re living here temporarily.”

  “Yes. I just hope they find some answers soon, so we can go home. It’s horrible to think that someone may have poisoned Sarah. Did you see her today?”

  “I was at the hospital this morning. And you?” Maggie wondered if Sarah’s foster father was still there.

  “I stopped in just after lunch. That’s where I was when you left your message. She’s about the same.”

  “At least she’s no worse.” Maggie held her glass, swirled the liquid slightly, and savored the scent. Deeply rich and slightly sweet. A perfect sherry. She sipped. Good sherry should never be gulped.

  “I still can’t believe the news about Tiffany. Two of my girls, in two days. They all seemed so young and lighthearted just Sunday night.”

  At the Whitcombs’ home. “Dorothy, we have another problem.”

  “Beyond Sarah and Tiffany?” Dorothy put her glass down on the small table between them and looked stricken. “Has someone else been hurt?”

  “Oh, no!” Maggie realized her manner had suggested something even worse than what Max was suggesting. “But it is a major problem for the students still living in Whitcomb House.”

  “Have they sealed it off as a crime scene, too?”

  “No. Worse than that.” Maggie took another sip of the sherry. “I just met with Max. He’s convinced Whitcomb House and its occupants are dragging Somerset College’s reputation down. He wants to make Whitcomb House disappear. He told me to have the students moved out by Friday afternoon.”

  “No!” Dorothy stamped one of her pink-shoed feet under the table. “He can’t do it! Not after all we’ve been through—and they’ve been through.”

  “He gave me direct instructions to get them out. Said they could continue attending school on their tuition scholarships, but that they couldn’t room on campus.”

  “That’s ridiculous. We have agreements with those students. We can’t go back on our word.” Dorothy hesitated a moment. “We need to get Oliver involved. He knows more about legalities than I do.” Maggie nodded. Dorothy walked to the bar, telephoned, then returned. “He’ll be right down. He’s upstairs, listening to CNN. Sometimes I wonder what he’d do in retirement without television news.”

  “It must be very different for you, having him home all of the time.”

  “So far it’s worked out. I have my projects; he has his. And we have our own regular evenings out with friends, so we’re not together all of the time. Some couples are overwhelmed by togetherness when one of them retires. We haven’t had that problem.”

  “So you’ve each kept your own friends?”

  “We always have. He had his friends in New York, and I have friends here. I come to your seminars at Whitcomb House some Monday evenings. There are meetings about the hospital. And Oliver has always gone to his gym—now the gym at Somerset College. Monday nights he and Paul play poker with some other corporate survivors, and Thursdays he plays squash. We both keep busy. Even without the disruption of police investigations.” Dorothy looked beyond Maggie’s shoulder. “Here he is now.”

  Her husband stopped at the bar and picked up a draft of Guinness on his way to join them. “Well, now, what seems to be the problem? Max is upset about what?”

  Maggie explained. “He wants the Whitcomb students out by Friday afternoon,” she finished.

  “I don’t think he can throw them out. Don’t say anything yet, Maggie. I’ll check with my lawyer to be sure, but by offering them scholarships and room and board for a year, on the condition they keep up their grades, I think they have an implied contract with the college. If we throw them out of Whitcomb House and don’t offer them an alternative dormitory, we’ll be in breach of that contract.”

  “Plus,” added Dorothy sweetly, “someone might call the media who are so interested in Sarah and Tiffany and tell them Somerset College is throwing four or five destitute single parents and their poor children out on the streets, just because one of their friends was murdered. I would think that publicity for Somerset College would be considerably worse than it is now.”

  Oliver reached over and touched Dorothy’s hand. “My dear, what a thought! And who do you think would call the media?” Oliver and Dorothy smiled at each other in understanding. Oliver was the one who broke the connection. “Maggie, leave it up to Dorothy and me. I promise that by noon tomorrow, if not earlier, Max will be begging those students to stay…perhaps he’ll even offer them a guaranteed extra semester to help make up for all the stress they’ve endured.”

  Maggie raised her glass. “I truly thank you. You’ve made my job much, much simpler.”

  “Oh! There’s Susie Wylie. She said she might stop in. Do you mind if I just say hello to her for a moment?” Dorothy waved to a portly woman in blue silk who’d walked in the door, then got up and went to join her.

  “A rough week, Maggie,” said Oliver, taking a deep drink of his beer. “Very rough indeed for Sarah and Tiffany, and for those of us who were close to them.”

  Maggie saw her opportunity. She and Oliver were alone. “Oliver, I hope you won’t consider this interfering, but there are a lot of rumors going around.”

  “I’m sure there are. With a campus full of young people? No doubt.”

  “Would you mind if I asked you about a couple of them? Just so I feel more confident when I talk to the Whitcomb House students. They’re already so nervous.”

  Maggie took a deep breath, checking to see that Dorothy was still with Ms. Blue Silk Dress. “I’ve heard you’ve been involved in nonacademic activities with one or more of the Whitcomb House students.”

  Oliver’s smile hardened. “Is that an accusation?”

  “No, it’s a question. Specifically—were you having an affair with Tiffany Douglass?”

  Oliver put down his drink. “Who told you that?”

  “Tiffany implied to several people that she was seeing an older, married man. She was away from Whitcomb House in
the evenings fairly frequently. Often on Monday nights, when I held my seminars there.” Maggie took another sip of sherry. Would Oliver really confess to having an affair with a Somerset College student? What if Tiffany had blackmailed him? What if he had killed her? Would Maggie’s questions put her in danger, too? “Dorothy told me you play poker on Monday nights. That means you’re not home on Monday evenings.”

  “Maggie, I’m hurt that you would even consider me capable of betraying my wife by involving myself with one of the Somerset students. Even such a lovely young lady as Tiffany. I don’t know what Tiffany said, or who she said it to, but if she was having an affair, it was with someone else, I assure you.”

  “It was just a rumor.”

  “Well, you can put that rumor back wherever you found it. And, for the record, I was not having an affair with Sarah Anderson either. Just in case anyone asks. Dorothy and I were trying to help these young people make futures for themselves. Someone chose to cut those futures short. It was not Dorothy or me.”

  “Was Tiffany blackmailing you, Oliver?”

  Oliver flushed red, then white, and then stood. “I think you’ve said just about enough, Maggie. You will excuse yourself and leave this hotel and you will cease and desist from asking any more insolent questions.”

  Maggie stood up. “I didn’t mean to be insulting. But today my campus office was trashed. I think whoever did it is looking for pictures Tiffany Douglass may have had. Pictures she may have been using to blackmail the man she was having an affair with. If it was you, Oliver, then I thought I’d warn you that the police know about the blackmail. And if it wasn’t you, perhaps you’d have some idea of who it was.”

  “I was not being blackmailed by Tiffany, nor by anyone else. I have no idea who might be. And if your office was trashed today, I’m sure it looks no worse than my home, which is being searched as a crime scene.” Oliver didn’t smile as he looked at Maggie. “I’d suggest you think very hard before you ask any more insulting questions of anyone. Especially questions that fall into the category of defamation of character.”

  “Tiffany Douglass is dead, Oliver. Someone might consider that insulting, too. If you have nothing to hide, you have no reason to mind being asked questions. And that’s good, because my questions were easy. I suspect the police will be asking them in a different way.”

  Oliver was right. It was time for her to go.

  She needed to think. For her own peace of mind she needed to do something, anything, to help find Tiffany’s killer.

  Chapter 31

  A Child’s Garden of Verses. Romantic, sentimental lithograph from painting by Jessie Willcox Smith (1863–1935) of mother in long pink gown, surrounded by eight happy, laughing toddlers. 6.75 x 9 inches. Price: $60.

  Police cars were still parked outside the college office building when Maggie drove through the gates and around the circular drive. She knew she should go in and open her desk drawer and give Tiffany’s briefcase to the police. And then answer questions about it. But she couldn’t cope with any other issues or police or victims or possible suspects, today. She idled her van for a moment. She should go home; she still had to straighten up before Gussie and Jim arrived tomorrow night. She had a sink full of dirty dishes. And she could try to get a good night’s sleep.

  Or she could go back to the hospital. Had the police convinced Sarah’s foster father to return to Princeton? If Sarah came out of the coma, would he still want to reestablish contact? Was he Aura’s father?

  Or she should visit the day-care center to see Aura. No—the Whitcomb House students hadn’t planned to leave their house today; they were at home, with the children. Aura was fine.

  Maggie felt her heart beating hard. Aura had people with her. Sarah was being cared for. Tiffany’s parents had no doubt come for Tyler. She hoped the joys of raising Tyler would ease their mourning for their daughter.

  The Dry Sack had tasted good and relaxed her just enough that she didn’t want to go home and deal with telephone messages and dirty dishes.

  She headed instead for her favorite Greek restaurant. She would treat herself to a quiet dinner. A peaceful dinner.

  It was still early, and Gorka’s was almost empty.

  The waitress showed Maggie to a small table near a blue-curtained window and a watercolor of the Acropolis and handed her a menu. Maggie ordered a glass of ice water and another Dry Sack. Just one more drink. She would be driving home. She started by sipping the ice water. She needed time, more than anything else.

  So much had happened. So little made sense.

  Maggie had not told anyone of her tentative decision to adopt, but she had signed up to attend an agency orientation meeting in early December. There was a day-care center at Somerset College; good public schools were nearby. One of her guest rooms could be for her daughter. Or son. That was a decision she hadn’t made yet. There were so many children who had no one. Was she considering adopting a child because she wanted to help a child? Yes. But she had selfish motives, too. She wanted to be a mother, to take care of someone, to teach them about the world. To hug them. She wanted to get hugs, too. To be loved.

  Was she substituting her vision of a mother’s relationship with a child for her lack of a permanent relationship with a man? A therapist might ask. Or an adoption caseworker doing a home study. But the relationships between a mother and child and between a woman and a man were so different. Although no relationship was permanent. That was for sure.

  The timing of her assignment advising the students at Whitcomb House had been perfect; she’d been able to see, firsthand, what it was like to be a single parent.

  Maggie sipped her Dry Sack and remembered Sarah, young and enthusiastic, when she had asked Maggie to be Aura’s guardian, “in case anything should happen to me.” Maggie had agreed; neither of them had dreamed the agreement would be anything but a temporary contingency plan.

  Maggie looked at the poster of the Aegean Sea on the opposite wall. The water was crayon-blue, and the clouds cottonlike. All very far away from Somerset County, New Jersey. She’d never been to Greece. It was on her “someday” list. A lot of possibilities were on that list.

  She ordered the shish kebab with broiled vegetables and pilaf with pignoli and alternated sipping water and sherry.

  Dorothy had made it clear that she wanted custody of Aura.

  The battle wouldn’t be worth fighting.

  Maggie wanted to love a child whom no one wanted; a child without a family. Aura had a mother who was still alive, a grandmother who wanted her—and possibly even a biological father.

  Could the father have found out that Aura was Dorothy’s granddaughter; that his biological daughter had a wealthy relative?

  No. There was no way that man at the hospital could have known.

  But if he was Aura’s father, his presence could further complicate any custody case. Could the name of Aura’s father be on her birth certificate? According to the adoption books, a single mother could either name a father on the birth certificate or indicate “unknown.” Perhaps Sarah hadn’t wanted to imply she hadn’t known who Aura’s father was; perhaps she’d put someone’s name on the certificate. That would give that man parental rights—and obligations. Would Sarah have contacted a lawyer to see if those rights could be voided? It was possible. The lawyer speaking at Whitcomb House had clearly told the single parents to ensure that their children’s legal status could not be questioned.

  Sarah has to live, Maggie thought. Somehow she has to survive, and she has to sort this out. Aura needs her.

  Maggie’s mind swirled with the contradictions of the situation. Emotionally, she knew what she wanted. Rationally, she knew what she would have to do.

  Most of all, she wanted Sarah to live.

  Tiffany had died—also from poison.

  But in Tiffany’s case there were possible motives.

  Her older, married lover? And what about Maria’s guess that Tiffany had been planning to blackmail someone or was doing so? Bl
ackmail was certainly a motive for murder. But, again—who? Maggie was trying to think logically. But was any murder logical?

  Tiffany had been with someone until two early Tuesday morning. Dorothy said Oliver played poker Monday evenings with Paul. But last night, Monday night, Paul had dinner with me, thought Maggie. And although we finished early, he was in no condition to go and play poker.

  Paul had said he and Oliver had covered for each other in the past. Could one be covering for the other now? And, if so, who was covering for whom?

  Could Tiffany have been having an affair with Paul?

  Paul wasn’t married. Had been, but wasn’t now. Tiffany had told her housemates that her lover was married, hadn’t she? No; the phrase was “had other commitments.” The commitments could have been to a marriage…but they could have been to something else…perhaps commitments to Somerset College? Public allegations of sexual harassment at colleges and universities had made faculty very conscious of the dangers of student-teacher relationships.

  Paul was the only one she’d talked to who’d hinted he knew something and hadn’t seemed totally honest with her.

  She finished dinner and resisted the idea of baklava for dessert.

  She would go home, cope with the dishes, make the guest bed, and then call Paul and talk to him again about Oliver and Tiffany. He hadn’t wanted to talk at school this afternoon, but maybe from the privacy of his home he could make the pieces of this puzzle fit. She had to speak with him again.

  Chapter 32

  A Friendly Game. A 1908 lithograph from a drawing by Jessie Willcox Smith (1863–1935) of a boy and a girl sitting on parallel chairs, balancing a checkerboard on their knees. The children have similar haircuts and are wearing round, white collars with black, floppy bows and loose orange outfits, in a style reminiscent of Maxfield Parrish’s. Both Parrish and Smith were members of Howard Pyle’s Brandywine Group. 10.5 x 14 inches. Price: $75.