The headmaster’s handsome face creased in lines of sorrow, but anger flickered in his eyes. “If we could but recall words spoken in anger, especially over so trivial a matter.” Now his smile turned rueful—and, of course, so boyishly appealing. Except for those angry eyes.
Brooke’s face softened. She nodded encouragingly at him.
Selwyn sighed. “I’ve not even had time to come to grips with Mrs. Matthews’s passing.” He gestured mournfully.
I almost interrupted to remind him that hers was scarcely the natural departure implied by his words. I restrained myself.
He continued: “And to think we parted in anger. Over nothing, really.”
“What was it?”
His eyes flicked irritably toward me.
I wasn’t winning any popularity contests with Headmaster Selwyn.
“A matter of policy,” he replied smoothly. “As you know, Mrs. Matthews was a person of such enthusiasm. Whenever she became involved in an activity, she felt very strongly that the world should also participate.”
“What did Patty Kay want you to do?”
“To offer our students flying instruction.”
“Flying?” Brooke swiftly shook her head. “Oh, no. That’s too dangerous.”
Gina explained, “Patty Kay’d just learned how to fly. I don’t know if Craig’d told you. She loved it.”
The headmaster turned his hands up. “Her enthusiasm was unbounded. She was furious when I told her that it was out of the question. The insurance alone would be insurmountable.” He looked at me earnestly, the fund seeker’s eagerness seeping into his voice. “I’m sure you appreciate, Mrs. Collins, that no matter how prosperous a school may appear, our budgetary concerns are always pressing. There is the new technology to provide. It’s astonishing how quickly computer labs become obsolete and new machines must be purchased. And upkeep for this magnificent physical plant requires an enormous—”
“Was that why she treated you with such cold contempt on Friday?” I waited attentively.
His eyes blazed now, but still he managed to keep his voice pleasant. “I would not characterize her attitude in that fashion—”
“Contempt is not the right word?” I looked at him inquiringly.
Brooke was staring at me, her eyes troubled.
“Certainly not, Mrs. Collins.” His smooth façade cracked. Finally, he spoke sharply. “That is a gross misinterpretation. As these ladies know, Mrs. Matthews was quite open about her feelings and I will certainly be the first to admit that she was deeply—deeply—disappointed at my response. And I’m sure I would have heard much more about it. In fact, I believe she intended to proselytize for her plans at her dinner party Saturday evening.” His voice dropped lugubriously. “The dinner party that never was. Ah, we must always be aware of our mortality and strive to do our very best at all times.”
I didn’t have a chance to answer. There was a sudden flurry at the door, the murmur of voices, all suitably hushed.
But perhaps it was just as well. It wouldn’t have been seemly in those civilized confines to inform Headmaster Chuck Selwyn that I thought he was phonier than George Bush in calling for a kinder, gentler America while authorizing inflammatory Willie Horton ads.
I contented myself with a sardonic glance.
Selwyn’s face didn’t change from its suitably somber mold; his eyes glistened with smug satisfaction.
The secretary’s voice announced: “Mr. Selwyn, I’m so sorry to interrupt. But the student council officers are here for their appointment.”
The headmaster moved toward the door. “Come in, young people. Come in.” He waved the three students to seats. There was one familiar face, Brooke’s son, Dan. “These ladies are just leaving.” Selwyn was trying to shepherd us toward the door. “I hope I’ve addressed everyone’s concerns adequately.”
Gina gave a tiny shrug and turned to go. Her lips were set in a grim, tight line.
To my surprise, socially obedient Brooke didn’t move. She was looking at her son. Her face was open and vulnerable. The passion of a mother’s love was as loud as if she’d shouted it to the world.
I suspected a great many parents of Walden School students were looking at their children today with equal emotion. No parent who cared would be untouched by Franci’s tragic suicide.
Dan Forrest gave us a subdued smile. His handsome face was pale. “Hi, Mother. Mrs. Abbott.” He nodded politely to me. He wore the uniform of an upper school student, blue blazer, white button-down Oxford shirt, and khaki slacks. They looked better on him than on Selwyn.
The headmaster’s greeting was brisk. “Hello, Dan. Appreciate your stepping in and taking charge since Walt can’t be here today.”
An awkward silence followed this greeting. Gina reached out and took Brooke’s hand, then told me soberly, “Walt is Franci’s brother.”
The teenager took a deep breath, then, obviously impressed with the seriousness of his task, addressed the headmaster. “Thank you for making time to see us, sir. I’m here as student council vice president and acting president to represent the student body”—was there just the slightest lift of self-importance?—“in the matter of a memorial for Franci Hollis. I met this morning with my fellow officers”— he nodded toward the tall, willowy brunette and stocky, athletic blond who accompanied him—“Secretary Laurie Adams and Treasurer Mark Kennedy. We voted to ask the board of trustees to plant a rose garden near the lake and name it in honor of Franci.”
Selwyn stepped forward and shook the boy’s hand vigorously. “I’m impressed with the thoughtfulness and delicacy of feeling this request represents. Out of this tragedy can grow a greater understanding of the needs of all students. Franci’s rose garden can be an ever-present reminder of the beauty of each individual and the need to take time for reflection and communication of our care for one another.”
Gina pressed her lips together.
Brooke smudged away a tear.
Dan’s stiff shoulders eased slightly. “I thought—we thought maybe we could get it planted, then have Walt lead the dedication.”
“A splendid proposal, Dan, Laurie, Mark. I’ll present your plan to the board. I feel confident it will be adopted.”
Another flurry of handshakes. Then the students were gone.
As the door closed on them, Selwyn seemed to realize we were still with him. Pointedly, he glanced at his watch. “Ladies, I do have another appointment in a few minutes….”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Brooke moved toward the door. “We understand. There is so much to be done. I’ll see you at the board meeting tomorrow night.”
Gina wasn’t saying a word. She moved toward the door.
I held up my hand. “Just one thing more.”
Gina and Brooke paused.
Selwyn eyed me with the enthusiasm of a zookeeper spotting an escaped viper. I could almost hear the calculations running through his mind—a meddlesome old bitch, but the Prentiss money, the Prentiss money, the Prentiss money …
“Yes, Mrs. Collins?”
“I’d like to ask where each of you were between four and five o’clock on last Saturday afternoon.”
Gina looked at me sharply, but her reply was icy and swift. “At my office. Working on a bid. Alone.”
Brooke stared at me as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “You’re asking me where I was when—isn’t that about the time Cr—” She broke off, clapped a hand to her mouth. “—the time someone shot Patty Kay?” she finished in a rush.
“Yes.”
Her eyes searched our faces. I’m not sure what she sought. Outrage on her behalf, perhaps. When she finally spoke, her voice was indignant and beautifully controlled. “I was working in my garden.”
“Alone?”
“Why, yes. Of course. David doesn’t like to garden. Besides, he was at his office. But Dan was in the clubroom. I could hear his music.”
That left Mr. Eternal Youth.
In Selwyn’s eyes I could read it as sharp as three le
mons in a slot machine window: meddlesome old bitch. Yet he replied.
“I was hiking. At Lake Radnor.”
Lake Radnor is one of the great joys of Nashville, a patch of wilderness in an urban area, a lake that on placid days reflects the trees on its banks in shimmering shades of ghostly green. And it is so safe that solitary women can walk its trails and roads. That in itself makes it special.
“Alone?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” I nodded. “It’s good to know where we stand.” I opened the door and walked out.
Three hostile pairs of eyes watched me go.
12
I knocked on the partially open door.
“Come in.”
I stepped into a tiny office. It was one of a pair tucked between the rest rooms and the elevator on the first floor at the back of the bookstore.
The young woman slowly looked up from the catalogue on her desk. She forced a smile. It didn’t reach blue eyes loaded with distress. “Yes?”
Stevie Costello, the manager of Books, Books, Books, was trying for a business-as-usual demeanor. I could have told her she wasn’t making it. She looked like she hadn’t slept, and her orange cardigan didn’t go with her burgundy skirt. She was in her early thirties, slender, with masses of soft curly brown hair. Stevie Costello had that kind of fragile, china-shepherdess prettiness that age or hardship can so easily destroy.
“Miss Costello, I’m Craig Matthews’s aunt. Henrietta Collins.” I shut the door behind me.
“Craig’s aunt?” One hand touched the coral beads around her slender throat. “Did Craig send you?” Her eyes remained uneasy, but eagerness lifted her voice.
A purist might contend my answer should have been no.
In my view, Craig’s acceptance of my aid gave me carte blanche to claim Craig did send me.
“Yes.” I took the single straight chair facing the cluttered desk.
“In the paper it said he’d been arrested—I can’t believe it. He’s such a gentle person. To think he—I can’t believe it.”
“Arrest is no proof of guilt.”
Her fingers tightened on the beads at her throat. I feared she would snap the necklace. But she didn’t answer.
“Craig should be out on bail later today.”
“On bail? That means the police still think he shot her. He didn’t do it. I know he didn’t. Craig would never hurt anyone.” She said the last so forcefully, I knew she was battling a lingering wisp of fear that Craig, gentle though he might be, had indeed shot his wife.
“You’re preaching to the choir, Stevie. I’ve good reason to believe Craig had nothing to do with his wife’s death.”
But qualifications buzzed in my mind: Craig lied about the time he left the bookstore—if I believed the clerk’s stubborn assertion. And I couldn’t forget the maid’s enigmatic remarks about Craig’s visits to the Sandalwood apartments.
I was still confident.
But not positive.
“But the police arrested him.”
“Craig’s lawyer and I hope to persuade the police that they’ve made a mistake.” I told her how I figured the crime had occurred. “And you can help us.”
“I can? How?” She stared at me, her face eager and dubious and a little bit frightened.
“Tell me about Craig. How he acted this past week. What you know about Mrs. Matthews. If you know of anyone who’d quarreled with her.”
The necklace broke in her hand. Beads scattered. She ignored them. “Craig was just as usual. Just as usual.” She spoke with utter surety. I wished Captain Walsh were hearing this.
“Everything was fine. And the idea that he’d get mad enough to throw things around—why, that’s silly. He’s not like that. Ask anyone who knows him.”
“Stevie, how well do you know Craig?”
The comfort zone swiftly eroded. She was abruptly wary, her pretty, wan face taut. “I’ve worked here for two and a half years.” She picked the words carefully, like a cat seeking dry grass. “I’ve always found him to be an extremely considerate and thoughtful employer.”
“How about Patty Kay?”
“I’ve dealt mostly with Craig. Patty Kay was here a lot, but she was busy with ordering. She was really into carrying a wonderful stock. And she had a lot of charity commitments. He was the person you always went to with problems or questions.”
“When you did work with Patty Kay, did you like her?”
“She was very nice.”
Four bland words. Damningly bland.
“Come now. Obviously somebody didn’t like her.”
The manager shivered. “It’s so awful. So awful. She was—she had a very strong personality. She laughed a lot. You always felt excitement when she was in the room, like something grand could happen at any time….” Her voice faltered.
“What do you suppose it would be like to live with someone like that?”
“I suppose it would be exciting. ” Stevie’s tone was noncommittal.
“Do you know of anyone who didn’t like her?”
“It seems ugly to talk about people.”
“We’re going to have to talk about a lot of people if Craig is to go free.”
She moved uncomfortably in her chair. “Mrs. Guthrie works here one day a week. She always had something snide to say about her sister. It made us—the staff—uncomfortable. I mean, Mrs. Matthews is the owner and here’s her sister bad-mouthing her. What were we supposed to say?”
“What kind of things did Mrs. Guthrie say?”
“Oh. Like Patty Kay was so politically correct it was nauseating. That she was selfish. Impossible. A showoff.”
“How did Mrs. Guthrie act around Patty Kay?”
“Snippy. But it never seemed to bother Patty Kay. Once I remember she just rolled her eyes. She said, ‘Pamela, you are so boring.’”
“No love lost between the sisters.”
“That’s right.” She nodded eagerly.
“Why do you suppose Mrs. Guthrie worked here if she felt that way about her sister?”
“Oh, she didn’t do it to please Mrs. Matthews Mrs. Guthrie didn’t want to miss out on anything. And this is the place to be in Fair Haven. Everybody drops in here for coffee. Businessmen. Lawyers. Everybody.” She spoke with pride, forgetting for a moment the reason for our conversation.
“Do you know of any disagreement Mrs. Matthews had recently with anyone?”
“I don’t know.” Her tone was thoughtful. “But Friday afternoon she was in her office—it’s right next to this one— and I opened the door and she was on the phone. Actually, she was just finishing a conversation. She said—I think her exact words were—‘That’s the way it’s going to be. Like it or not.’ And she hung up. She sounded absolutely determined. I didn’t think much about it. I mean, Patty Kay could really handle people like suppliers or it could even have had to do with, say, a charity drive. But this time there was something awfully grim in her voice. When she looked up at me, I could tell she wasn’t even seeing me. Her mind was a million miles away. Then she came to and asked me what I wanted. But she didn’t smile the way she usually would when you approached her.”
Friday afternoon—“That’s the way it’s going to be. Like it or not.”
“You don’t know to whom she was talking?”
“No. I’ve no idea.”
“Is there anything else different or unusual, anything that strikes you now as odd?”
I saw a flash in her eyes.
Her lips opened. She seemed about to speak. Then, abruptly, she shook her head. “No, ma’am.”
I held her gaze for a moment. “Give it some thought. It could be the difference between life and death for Craig.”
That shook her.
I stooped and picked up one of the pretty coral beads.
She shifted again in her chair. “Look, it couldn’t have anything to do with it. Not really. But Patty Kay’d been calling around lately, talking to boarding schools. For her daughter. Brigi
t wasn’t happy about it. But—”
She didn’t want to say it. She didn’t want to put it into words.
I wasn’t so squeamish.
“Brigit could have shot Patty Kay.”
Stevie drew her breath in sharply.
I stood. “After all, someone did.” I paused in the doorway. “You weren’t at the store that Saturday afternoon.”
“Saturday’s my day off … I was out shopping in the afternoon. In Green Hills.”
“Did you buy anything?”
Many charge card transactions record the time.
“No. No. I was just looking.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. But you can’t think I would have done it. Why would I?” Her voice grew sharp with fear.
“I don’t know,” I said agreeably. “But if you had a reason, Stevie, I’ll find it.”
Handing her the bead, I left.
Twenty minutes later I stood in front of Stevie Costello’s second-floor-apartment door at Sandalwood Courts. After knocking briskly, I gave the surroundings a quick survey. A UPS delivery man was trotting across the newly mown grassy rectangle toward the opposite side of the complex. In a bed of iris, a gardener worked with his back to me. I wondered if he was Jewel’s grandson. He didn’t glance my way.
I used my Frequent Flier card to jiggle the lock loose. There was, fortunately, no deadbolt.
It took about thirty-five seconds. Lock-picking is a skill I picked up over the years.
It didn’t take much longer to examine Stevie’s bedroom closet. More than a dozen items, including skirts and sweaters, were from Lands’ End. I saw what was probably the matching skirt to the beige cotton sweater that was now in police custody.
Interesting that Craig had apparently recognized the sweater.
Even more interesting that it prompted him to run away, taking both the sweater and the murder weapon with him.
I took a few more minutes to check out the apartment.
I didn’t find any photos of Craig. No letters from him. No traces of masculine occupancy.
But what I had found was certainly thought-provoking.
I could imagine Richard’s headshake and a murmured “Careful, sweetheart.”
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