Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02

by Scandal in Fair Haven

Desmond stood beside the podium. He glanced at his watch.

  A bell rang.

  Ten o’clock.

  The students moved restively in their seats. Grave-faced parents looked at the stage. The low buzz of conversation quieted.

  I looked out at the sea of fresh young faces and wondered if one hid a violent, cunning, dangerous nature. I scanned the rows.

  Chloe Abbott, her face sullen and pinched, slouched beside her mother. Gina’s sharp-featured face was set in a stony mask.

  A few rows farther back, Brigit Pierce whispered animatedly to the pensive girl sitting next to her.

  Desmond didn’t need a microphone. No lawyer ever does. “Good morning. I’m Desmond Marino, president of the Walden School board of trustees …”

  I listened with only half an ear. I was busy thinking about my own presentation.

  But I wasn’t first on today’s agenda.

  “… a chance today to present a special memorial to one of your classmates, Franci Hollis. To make the presentation I would like to call on Dan Forrest, president of the student council.”

  Brooke’s troubled face softened as she watched her handsome son stride toward the podium.

  Dan started off with a quaver but kept going, and his voice steadied. “… at three o’clock this afternoon everybody’s invited to attend the dedication of the Franci Hollis Memorial Rose Garden which will be planted between the girls’ gym and the lake. We had hoped that Franci’s brother Walt would be here today.” He cleared his throat. “Walt has decided to withdraw from school—”

  Exclamations of surprise and dismay sounded among the students.

  “—and I know all of us will urge him to come back.” He glanced down at the notecard tightly gripped in his hand. “Walden School will miss Franci, and all of us deeply regret her loss. Perhaps if everyone would write Walt a note —just to let him know how we feel—maybe then he will come back. I know we want him to be our class president. I see my taking the job as temporary.” He looked earnestly out at the audience. “I hope it’s just temporary. I promise I will make every effort to do the best job that I can. Thank you.”

  There was a ragged burst of applause, led by Chloe. No one knew quite what was proper here.

  Dan returned to his seat.

  Desmond stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “As many of you are aware, Walden School also suffered the loss this past weekend of Patty Kay Matthews, a teacher and a longtime member of the Walden board of trustees. A representative of the Matthews family, Mrs. Collins, will now speak to you.”

  I have no traffic with New Age concepts. Channeling, to me, is a rather sad attempt at self-importance. I see crystals as the modern equivalent of the rabbit’s foot, and good karma, bad karma as an exotic means of escaping responsibility.

  But maybe strong emotions do reach across time and space. Because—just for an instant—as my audience quieted, I experienced a wave of fear—sharp, immediate, profoundly disturbing.

  Someone in this auditorium was desperately, wildly, dangerously frightened.

  I felt it, then it was gone.

  It shook me.

  Because fear can be dangerous. Fear led to the murder of Patty Kay and of little Amy at the bookstore.

  I was tempted to speak out frankly, to warn that there was terrible danger present—here and now—on this lovely campus.

  But I’d promised.

  And if I spoke that openly, it might simply increase the pressure on the murderer, increase the danger.

  I’ve spoken in a good many difficult and trying circumstances. I can assume whatever tone I must. There was no echo of distress in my voice. “I appreciate the opportunity to talk to you this morning. My request is simple. The family hopes to learn—perhaps through Mrs. Matthews’s conversations last Friday—information that might be helpful to the authorities. I am asking all persons in this room who saw Mrs. Matthews on Friday to write down when they saw her and with whom she was speaking. Of course, if you happened personally to speak with her, that’s even better. Now, please take a sheet of paper, respond to these questions, put your name on it, sign it, then pass it to the right. Remember, it’s important for us to know every single person Mrs. Matthews saw that day.”

  I worked fast in the lobby outside the auditorium. The young policewoman, Sergeant Roman, stood a few feet away, watching. I wanted to be in position to set up interviews by the time the assembly ended. Even though the doors were closed, I heard Selwyn’s smooth tenor as he urged students to talk with counselors and teachers about the untimely events of the last week. I suppose that man could make the Second Coming sound pedestrian. The smooth-tongued headmaster certainly had no trouble with a suicide and murder. And yet I hoped his message was being heard, it is so desperately important to listen when children speak. Despair and depression strike the young as well as the old.

  It didn’t take me long to separate the sheets. Many I discarded at once. Others went into a pile signifying a brief, unrewarding glimpse of Patty Kay.

  The gold lode contained sightings of Patty Kay in conversation.

  And one report was a chart buster—written by a very smart student. I read it twice, put that student’s name at the top of the list, then swiftly added the others I wanted to see.

  • • •

  I felt a flicker of irritation. Surely Walden School had an extra office at its disposal. Obviously Selwyn intended to cooperate as minimally as possible. All right, I could conduct interviews in the now-shadowy and cavernous—with most of the lights dimmed—auditorium.

  Actually, the auditorium had the advantage of the adjacent lobby, which provided a place for the students I had selected to wait.

  My first interviewee strode purposefully down the aisle. Short, stocky, and athletic, Barbara Phillips got right to the point. “I didn’t see Mrs. Matthews at all on Friday, but I gathered you want to know about everyone who talked to her. Of course, I don’t know that it will do you any good, because Franci’s not here to tell you about it. But I know that Franci talked to Mrs. Matthews sometime Friday morning.”

  It was as satisfying as watching the third lemon click into place in a slot machine.

  Finally, I had proof that Patty Kay and Franci had connected on that fateful Friday.

  “Yes, that’s terribly important, Barbara. I want to know all about it, whatever you can tell me.”

  Barbara’s squarish, good-humored face was troubled. “I feel terrible about Franci. I mean, I guess I should have done something. But I had a physics quiz at ten and I was in a hurry. It was just a fluke I even saw her. I went by the girls’ gym after my nine o’clock class Friday. Normally, it’s empty then. The first phys ed class is at eleven. Anyway, I dashed into the locker room to get some stuff I’d left the night before. And I heard somebody sobbing in the rest room. It sounded awful. So I called out. And the stall door opened and Franci stumbled out. She looked awful. I thought she was sick. I asked what was wrong.”

  Barbara’s face puckered in a puzzled frown. “Then she didn’t make any sense. Franci said something like Mrs. Matthews said there wouldn’t be any more letters but she’d had one this morning and it told her she’d better say she’d written the letters or Walt would die. I couldn’t get it straight what letters she was talking about and how she could say she’d written letters she’d received. And I didn’t have time! And she kept crying about Walt, so I told her that was the silliest thing I’d ever heard, Walt wasn’t going to die, and she should do whatever Mrs. Matthews wanted. But Franci moaned and said she didn’t know what to do. The warning bell rang and I had to go.” Her eyes pleaded for understanding, for forgiveness. “Mr. Jeffers won’t let you in class if you’re late. I told Franci to go see Mrs. Watkins, the counselor, and I ran out of the gym. Later, during lunch, I hunted for Franci. But I couldn’t find her anywhere.” Tears filled her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  After Barbara left, I sat for a moment, thinking it through. And realized that Barbara’s shamefaced contributio
n was critically important:

  Patty Kay not only talked to Franci, Patty Kay had confronted the student who wrote the poisonous letters.

  Panicked, the letter writer had threatened Franci.

  All of this happened between Patty Kay’s arrival on the campus Friday morning and nine fifty-five, when Franci sought refuge in the rest room of the girls’ gym.

  I whipped through my sheets.

  I discarded the contacts that appeared fleeting.

  But there were three persons who’d been observed talking to Patty Kay before ten o’clock Friday that I wanted to see.

  Her daughter Brigit.

  Dan Forrest.

  Chuck Selwyn.

  I stared at the headmaster’s name. My chest felt tight. Oh, my God, of course.

  I almost jumped to my feet and charged to Selwyn’s office to confront the sorry, obtuse, tunnel-visioned idiot! Obsessed with protecting the reputation of his precious school, he’d hidden the fact that Patty Kay had talked to him about the letters.

  Of course she had.

  It would be the very first thing she would do. He was the headmaster. Selwyn was the first person she would tell.

  He’d lied to all of us, claimed she wanted to start a flying program.

  And he’d kept on lying.

  I wondered if Selwyn had any idea how lucky he was that the letter writer didn’t know about his chat with Patty Kay. I intended to make that clear when I spoke to him. As well as the possible results of his hiding that knowledge.

  Such as poor little Amy’s murder.

  But I wanted to have all the ammunition I could before I faced Selwyn. I carefully rechecked the student reports. Yes. Only two other persons were observed talking to Patty Kay before ten A.M. that day. So the chances were very good that I’d narrowed the search for the letter writer down to a choice of two:

  Dan Forrest.

  Or Brigit Pierce.

  Brigit followed me down the shadowy aisle. When we reached the front row, I took the second seat. My purse sat on the floor by my feet. I reached down, opened the flap, and flipped on my tape recorder.

  Brigit plopped down next to me, dropped her books carelessly on the floor. “I don’t see what difference it makes who my mom talked to on Friday. She didn’t know somebody was going to shoot her Saturday.” She spoke of her mother’s murder without emotion.

  “I understand your mother was angry?”

  She thought about it, gave me a sideways glance. “Hmm. Yeah. I guess. She was in a rotten mood Friday morning. I know she was hacked at Mr. Selwyn.”

  “Was this when she gave him an icy look?”

  “Yes. He was coming out of her office as I went in. He was going fast, like he couldn’t wait to be outta there.”

  “Why did you go by your mother’s office?”

  She thought about it just a shade too long. “I had a note in my locker.”

  “Why did she want to see you?”

  She looked at me blandly. Entirely too blandly. “Franci. Mom asked me how Franci’d been acting lately. I couldn’t see why she’d care, but I told her Franci was weird, glop-ping around like the world was coming to an end. But Franci was always kinda weird.” Brigit chattered on, disdain in her voice. “… ‘course, I didn’t know about those notes then. I mean, you talk about weird! I’ve heard those notes are real sicko.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have written them?”

  She shrugged. “No.” She frowned. “Somebody who’s not very nice.”

  “Is that all you and your mother discussed?”

  She was gathering up her books. “Hmm? Yes.”

  “She didn’t talk to you about going away to school?”

  Her eyes skidded toward me, then away. “No.” Her voice was harsh. “Not a word.”

  • • •

  If you’ve ever watched a duel with swords, you’d have a sense of my joust with Dan Forrest.

  I edged my purse and the silently whirring recorder a little closer to his chair. Surely I could get something—even if it was just the tone of his answer—to buttress my suspicion.

  Like his mother, Dan was undeniably attractive. Crisp, short black hair. Finely chiseled features. Smooth skin. Deep-set dark blue eyes. Clean-cut enough for a Norman Rockwell cover. He didn’t appear to have a care in the world. A smiling face.

  Ted Bundy smiled a lot.

  It would take rock-solid proof to ever convince a jury of Dan’s guilt.

  “You talked to Mrs. Matthews Friday morning.”

  He was smart enough not to deny it. “Yes, ma’am. About a paper I’m doing.” He was relaxed, casual, smiling, his sapphire eyes courteously attentive.

  “What kind of person wrote those letters to Franci?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I’m asking you to give me an idea. Do you suppose it was a nerdy little creep?”

  The smile looked iced on his face.

  I gave him a swift, thorough scan. His hands were loose in his lap. There was no room for a gun beneath his blazer. He did have on a backpack. There would be plenty of room in it for Patty Kay’s missing gun. Before he could get to it, my Mace would be out and in use.

  But I was very glad that the young policewoman wasn’t more than a shout away.

  However, if I could somehow entice Dan to attack me …

  He still smiled, but it wasn’t reflected in his hot, angry eyes. And was he really so handsome? Wasn’t there a hint of cruelty in his mouth? A feline secretiveness in his polite gaze?

  “A second-rater, somebody who isn’t good enough to succeed. A coward, of course.”

  One eye nickered. A nervous tic.

  I jabbed again, hoping to draw more blood.

  “Maybe somebody like you. Vice president. Not president. Not on your own steam. You’re jealous of Walt, aren’t you? Walt always beats you in grades. In sports. In elections. They don’t like you as much as they do Walt.”

  Glittering blue eyes never left my face.

  “You decided to tyrannize Franci because you knew it would upset Walt. She didn’t really cooperate, did she? It would have been better if she’d told him. But you really got to Walt finally—because poor Franci killed herself and that drove Walt out of Walden School. You couldn’t have hoped for a better result, could you? Now you’re class president. Well, I can promise you, Dan, you won’t be class president for long.”

  He pushed up from his chair, stood, glared down at me.

  Oddly enough, I wasn’t frightened.

  How did Patty Kay feel when she looked into her murderer’s eyes?

  “Where were you at five o’clock Saturday afternoon, Dan?”

  “Home. I was home.”

  “How about yesterday afternoon, Dan? Around three o’clock.”

  “I’m on the cross-country team.”

  “Out running by yourself?”

  “Yes. Yes, I was.”

  “You wrote those damn notes.”

  “You can’t prove a thing. Mr. Selwyn said—”

  He broke off.

  I reached down for my purse and stood, facing him. “Yes, Dan. What did Mr. Selwyn say?”

  Panic swept that handsome face. Dan turned and ran up the aisle.

  I looked after him. Then I clicked off my recorder.

  22

  The bright sunshine stung my eyes. But I wasn’t particularly aware of my surroundings. There was too much turmoil in my mind.

  I was certain Dan Forrest came to the Walden campus late Thursday night to put yet another nasty pink note in Franci’s locker.

  Patty Kay had seen Dan.

  All the tragedy of this week flowed from that moment.

  Dan wrote the tormenting messages. He was bitterly jealous of Walt and desperately wanted to hurt him. Dan saw Walt as vulnerable through his sensitive, gentle sister.

  I stepped onto thick grass to angle my way across a broad sweep of lawn to the path leading to the old house and Selwyn’s office.

  Yes, Dan wrote the
notes. My description of the letter writer infuriated him.

  But Dan made no move to attack me.

  Of course, he must have realized a policewoman waited in the foyer of the auditorium.

  Yet he was angry and upset, surely as threatened by my knowledge as by Patty Kay’s.

  Perhaps Dan felt all he had to do was deny any knowledge of those letters. I had no concrete proof. Not like Patty Kay, who had actually possessed—

  I stopped short.

  The trashing of Patty Kay’s office. The attempted arson.

  Of course. Dan did both.

  And how it must have amused him to tell me about the open back door and the sounds he’d heard upstairs Monday. His lies would cover his presence behind the Matthews house if he had been observed that afternoon.

  It was Dan who rifled through the files and, when he didn’t find the note, he’d angrily damaged the office. It was Dan who splashed gasoline against the house and escaped into the darkness.

  But I was still surprised that he’d run away now, making no attempt to silence me.

  He must feel as long as I had no visible proof, it was his word against mine.

  After all, Dan was a Forrest.

  I smiled grimly and began to walk swiftly across the lawn.

  Dan didn’t know I had recorded our conversation, including that terribly revealing “Mr. Selwyn said …”

  Chuck Selwyn. I couldn’t wait to face him down. The sorry jerk. Dan’s artless comment meant Selwyn knew that Dan wrote the notes that drove Franci to suicide. The headmaster had done nothing about it. Just as I had surmised before I talked to Brigit and Dan. But the critical difference was that Dan Forrest knew that Patty Kay had told Selwyn about him.

  Why kill Patty Kay and leave Selwyn to tell the tale?

  How could Dan have counted on the headmaster keeping quiet?

  Would a murderer take that chance?

  But the desperate gamble had succeeded, hadn’t it? Publicly, the headmaster had given no hint he knew the identity of the writer of those cruel notes. But he’d talked to Dan.

  I didn’t understand.

  Was I wrong on all counts? Did Patty Kay’s discovery about the notes have no connection with her murder?