by Leslie Meier
Conversation stopped as the first waiter presented a silver cake stand laden with sandwiches, scones, and cakes and placed it in the center of the table with a flourish. “The scones are cranberry today,” he announced. “The sandwiches are egg and cress on tomato bread, salmon on wholemeal bread, jambon on cheese bread, and chicken salad on white bread.”
They listened attentively as he pointed out the tiny triangles that were so artfully arranged. Lucy was starving and her mouth was watering.
“Also, we have an assortment of cakes: mini éclairs, gateau au chocolat, tartes des fruits, and lemon cupcakes. Enjoy!”
“I’m sure we will,” said Rachel, somewhat dazed.
“Earl Grey for you, madam?” Another waiter was at Lucy’s elbow, filling her cup with fragrant, steaming tea and then leaving the silver pot on the table for her. The others, in turn, received their Lapsang souchong, Assam, and Darjeeling. Then the servers vanished and they were confronted with the problem of where to start.
“I say we go for the cakes first,” said Sue. “Why fill up on the other stuff?”
Rachel adopted her nanny face. “We can’t begin with cake—the sandwiches are the most nourishing.”
“Let’s compromise and start with the scones,” suggested Pam. “Just look at that Devonshire cream.”
It took some time to properly assemble the scones and cream, as well as the strawberry jam, on their plates, and Lucy became thoughtful. “These are really good,” she said, biting into the warm, buttery, slightly crisp scone that was a perfect foil for the luscious toppings.
“I know,” said Sue. “These are amazingly delicious—so delicious, in fact, that I’m going to pretend they don’t have any calories at all.”
“Me too!” declared Pam.
They sat in silence, savoring their treat, until Sue raised her finger, indicating a thought had occurred to her. “Have you heard from Elizabeth, Lucy? I just wondered because, frankly, I could use something a little stronger than tea, and they do have champagne.” Her face brightened at the prospect, then adopted a more serious expression. “But if you’re strapped, we can certainly stick to the tea.”
Lucy shifted her head, mentally changing gears. “You won’t believe this. The dean actually thanked her for showing her how important the school’s traditions are to the students. She nominated her for the school spirit award.”
Pam was grinning. “Maybe it’s just me, but school spirit and Elizabeth don’t seem like terms I would use in the same sentence.”
Lucy shrugged and raised her hand, signaling the waiter. “We’d like champagne all ’round, please.”
The waiter nodded, serious in his penguin suit. “Excellent choice, madam.”
Chapter Twenty-one
On the flight home, Lucy and her friends were seated separately, scattered throughout the cabin. Lucy, now a seasoned flyer, was flipping through the flight magazine while other passengers were still boarding. It looked to be another crowded flight, and the overhead compartments were filling up fast. Lucy, who was seated once again on the aisle, had to duck when somebody’s bag tumbled out and landed in her lap.
“I’m so sorry,” said an older gentleman, retrieving his briefcase.
“No damage done,” said Lucy, glancing at him and receiving a shock. For a moment, she thought he was George Temple, come back from the grave.
There was a click as the overhead compartment was closed, and he took the seat directly opposite her, on the other side of the aisle. Déjà vu all over again, she thought, stealing another look. The man didn’t really look like George, she realized, although he did have gray hair and was wearing a similar jacket.
“I know I’m showing my age but I miss the days when flying was an adventure,” he said, smiling at her. “My goodness, they used to treat us like royalty, and the stewardesses were all young and beautiful.”
“I guess we were all younger,” said Lucy, smiling back. “This is my first overseas trip.”
“Did you have a good time?” he asked.
Lucy thought a moment. “It wasn’t what I expected,” she said finally.
“Well,” he replied, opening the packet containing earphones, “I hope we have a pleasant flight.”
“Me too,” said Lucy, turning back to her magazine.
Takeoff went smoothly and Lucy tried to interest herself in a movie, but her thoughts kept returning to George Temple. She understood that he’d done a terrible thing; she could still hear Tom Smith declaring, “Temple wasn’t any better than a serial killer. What’s the difference? Bobby died because of George, because of what he did. He never apologized; he never admitted he’d done anything wrong. He thought, right up until the moment he died, that he was better than everybody else. My only regret is that I didn’t get to tell him why he was dying, that he was being punished for what he did to us.”
Lucy understood his anger, at least she thought she did, but she wasn’t at all sure that it was okay for people to take the law into their own hands. Temple was tried; he served jail time. Maybe it wasn’t the justice system’s shining moment, but in the years she’d covered various trials as a reporter, she’d learned that judges’ decisions rarely satisfied everybody. In fact, one lawyer told her that a good decision was one that didn’t make either party completely happy.
She squinted at the little screen. Matt Damon sure wasn’t happy, and neither was Leonardo DiCaprio, and that Mark Wahlberg guy had a really foul mouth. She decided to try the BBC news instead, but there were floods in China and violence in Africa and the world seemed to be in a dreadful state. Hearing the tinkle of the drinks cart, she smiled, thinking that Sue would be pleased. Be honest, she chided herself. She was looking forward to that white wine, too.
She was finishing up her lunch, tucking the empty wrappers into a plastic cup that had held spring water, when a thought struck her. The meal had many components: a plastic plate and cutlery, a salad, a foil packet containing salad dressing, a paper napkin, some sort of pasta with sauce, all of which came from different suppliers. But, she thought in an aha moment, somebody had put it all together. Somebody in the British Airways corporation had chosen these products and arranged for them to be assembled and distributed to passengers.
Nothing got done without an organizer, she thought. Not a bake sale, not a school play, and not a murder. The tour group hadn’t all woken up one morning and decided to murder George Temple; somebody had to put the idea into their heads. Somebody had organized the killing and assigned the parts; somebody had convinced the others to share the blame.
“May I take your tray?” asked the stewardess.
Lucy handed it over, and then opened her book, but she wasn’t reading. She was thinking that she knew exactly who had orchestrated Temple’s death . . . but could she prove it?
Her suspicions grew even stronger two months later, when she was covering the commencement ceremony at Winchester College. President Chapman announced that Professor Crighton was now emeritus and that Professor Quentin Rae would henceforward occupy the English Literature chair. She sat there, jaw dropping, as Quentin stepped forward to receive his stole, to enthusiastic applause. The applause, she realized, had less to do with Quentin himself than the high spirits of the crowd, who had gathered to congratulate and support their kids. The applause from the section where the faculty was seated was merely polite, but it was difficult to know if that was simply because they had attended so many commencement ceremonies that they were bored or if they believed Quentin unworthy of the honor.
Her mind was in a whirl, but she had to concentrate on getting down President Chapman’s speech, all about the impressive work Professor Rea had done through the years, the way he’d reached out to students, especially those having trouble adjusting to college life, and something about the new priorities in which teaching was taking precedence over publishing. Lucy had no idea if this was actually a trend in higher education or a defense against criticism that Quentin hadn’t published much.
When all the speeches had been delivered and the diplomas awarded, after the graduates had tossed their caps into the air and were gathered with family members for the traditional photos, she fell into step beside Fred Rumford. Rumford was a history professor, and she’d occasionally interviewed him in the past, most recently when a scuba diver discovered an eighteenth-century shipwreck off the coast.
“Are you looking forward to summer vacation?” she asked.
“Not me,” he replied, shaking his head. He’d taken off his black robe and was carrying it over his arm. He’d forgotten his cap, however. It was a rather large beret and gave him a clownish look. “Summer school starts next week. There’s no rest for the wicked.”
“Too bad.” She smiled. “Though I don’t imagine it’s actually a grueling schedule.”
“No.” He laughed, pulling off the cap. “Shame on me. It’s just one class, but it meets daily for six weeks.”
“Then you’re free?”
“Yup. I’m heading for Greece, spending August cruising the Greek islands on my friend’s schooner.” He gave the cap a twirl on his finger.
Lucy pictured sparkling blue water, rocky shores, and dazzling white houses and was sick with envy. “Sounds divine,” she said.
He shrugged. “I’m crew. My friend hires the boat out to paying customers. I expect I’ll have to do a lot of kowtowing.”
Lucy laughed. “That’s life.” She paused. “Listen, what’s up with Quentin Rea? I didn’t know he was being considered for a chair.”
Rumford grimaced. “It’s all about the money. These are tough times—the board of directors can’t afford top talent. I heard they were going to give the chair to George Temple, on the cheap. He, at least, has published a few things that were well received. But when he died, they held their noses and voted for Rea.”
“I thought he plays kind of fast and loose with the female students. . . .”
“I’m pretty sure Chapman read him the riot act, told him she expected him to behave in a professional manner.” He grinned wickedly. “Besides, he is getting older. I think even his tremendous libido may be weakening. And face it, he isn’t as attractive as he used to be.”
“But I thought that professors were virtually untouchable.”
Rumford shook his head. “The world is changing, Lucy. I wouldn’t be surprised if she made him sign some sort of contract, with stiff penalties for misconduct.”
“Would he sign something like that?”
“In a minute. He was always ambitious, always wanted to be a professor, and I’m sure he realized this was his last chance.” Rumford nodded. “Remember, he didn’t have a chance in hell of getting the job until Temple died.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Lucy as they came to a fork in the pathway. One way led to the cafeteria, where a reception was in full swing; the other led to the parking lot. “I guess you’re expected at the party.”
“Punch and cookies,” he said. “Used to be we could count on Quentin to spike the punch but now . . .” He trailed off, raising a skeptical eyebrow.
Lucy laughed. “If I don’t see you before you leave, have a great time in Greece.”
“You, too, Lucy. Have a good summer.”
Lucy continued on toward the parking lot, mulling over what Rumford had told her. He’d confirmed her suspicion that Quentin had a strong motive for getting Temple out of the way, a motive that had nothing to do with righting old wrongs or getting revenge. And he could have learned about Temple’s past from one of the students he was so friendly with.
Lucy stopped in her tracks, in the middle of the concrete path, and turned around. It was a slim chance—most of the undergraduates had left already—but maybe she could find one of the kids from the tour. Freshmen, she knew, were assigned housing in two dorms, ugly brick boxes that had originally been built to accommodate returning GIs after World War II. One was called Patton and the other Eisenhower.
Patton was the closest. The doors were normally locked and could only be opened by using a special ID card, but practicality had trumped security as students struggled to move out their possessions. Or maybe it was just end-of-term partying; the plain steel door was propped open with a beer keg.
Lucy shook her head at this evidence of underage drinking and entered a dim hallway paved with gray vinyl tiles and lined with doors. She wandered along, peeking from time to time into the abandoned rooms with their stripped beds and open dresser drawers. Here and there, a poster still hung on the painted concrete block walls. She climbed the stairs to the second and third floors, but nobody was there. All the rooms were empty, which puzzled her, because Fred had told her a summer school session was planned. Surely some of the freshmen would be staying on to make up a course or perhaps pick up some extra credits. The answer was in a notice posted on a bulletin board: Patton would be closed for renovations; summer students would have to move to Eisenhower.
Crossing the quad, Lucy found a different atmosphere in the other dorm. The door was also propped open, this time with a lacrosse stick, and most of the rooms were empty, but here and there she found signs of occupation, although the dorm seemed temporarily deserted. It was a nice May day, after all, and those who weren’t attending the ceremony were probably out enjoying the weather.
Many of the students had put signs with their names on the doors, and she looked for Caroline, Jennifer, Will, or Autumn but didn’t find them. She was about to give up when she heard voices and went to investigate. Maybe she could ask them, whoever they were, if any of the kids from the tour were still on campus.
But as she drew closer, she realized the voices were engaged in an argument.
“Let me go,” growled a male voice. “They expect me at the reception.”
“No!” The voice was female, young. “Not until you promise.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” The male was losing patience.
“No, I’m not. You said you loved me.”
Lucy stopped. Maybe this wasn’t the time to strike up a conversation with these two. She had turned around and was heading back to the stairs when she heard something that made her reconsider.
“Autumn, of course I love you.”
It was Quentin, she realized. Quentin and Autumn.
“Then why won’t you marry me?”
There was a long pause. Lucy found she was holding her breath, waiting for the answer.
“I haven’t said I won’t marry you.”
Lucy’s eyebrows went up.
“It’s just that marriage is a big step. We should take our time.”
“I don’t have time. I’m pregnant.”
Lucy’s jaw dropped.
“It’s almost three months. We have to make a decision soon if I’m going to get an abortion.”
“I’m aware of that and I’ll take care of you, I promise. And the child. But that’s not a reason to get married. Not anymore. There’s no stigma about being a single mother anymore. . . .”
“Look. I don’t want to have the baby unless you’re going to marry me.”
“How come you weren’t on the Pill? Pretty irresponsible if you ask me.”
“Right. Like I should poison my body with that stuff. How come you didn’t get a vasectomy?”
“Look, I have to get to that reception. We’ll talk later.”
“NO!” Autumn’s voice was a hysterical cry.
“Calm down.” Quentin was firm. “I have to go now. We’ll talk about this later. We’ve got plenty of time to discuss this rationally, but this is not the time. I have to make an appearance at the reception.”
“Okay, I’ll go, too.”
“No, you won’t.” Quentin’s voice was threatening and Lucy felt uneasy. “Meet me at my apartment. In an hour.”
“No. I’m going to go to the reception and make a big announcement.”
Lucy heard a sharp slap, the sound of a hand meeting a cheek, and heard a shriek. She darted into the nearest room and hid behind the door as angry footsteps pounded do
wn the hall. When she heard Quentin start down the stairs, she returned to the hallway, where she heard sobs.
Looking out the window at the end of the hall, she saw Quentin hurrying across the quad, his black gown flapping behind him. She stood watching for a minute, then came to a decision. She could still hear Autumn sobbing as she walked back to the door decorated with nothing but the original computer card the college used to assign rooms. The door was ajar, so she gave a perfunctory knock and pushed it open.
Autumn was sitting on the edge of the bed, grabbing tissues by the fistful and wiping her eyes. “Wha-what are you doing here?” she demanded, eyes flashing.
“I was looking for you, actually.” Lucy noticed Autumn had a new tattoo, a Gothic-style Q on her arm.
“Well, you found me.” Autumn blew her nose. “How much did you hear?”
“Just about everything,” said Lucy. She seated herself on the single bed next to the girl. “I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but this isn’t the end of the world. Whatever you decide, there’s help. You’ll get through this.”
Autumn pounded her fist on her knee. “It’s all his fault. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“You have a point.” Lucy gave Autumn a quick hug. “But trust me, that kind of thinking is not productive.” She paused. “The most you’re going to get out of him is money for an abortion.”
“I don’t want an abortion. I just said that. And I don’t want to be a single mom. My mom was a single mom and I know what that’s like. And I’m sure not giving up my kid for adoption. I’ve been a foster kid and it’s no fun.” She pressed her lips together. “Nope, I’m gonna make him marry me.”
Lucy felt her stomach tighten. The girl was playing with fire and didn’t know it. “Even if you can blackmail him into marrying you, what sort of start would that be? What kind of marriage would you have?”
Autumn gave her a sweet smile, and Lucy caught a glimpse of the sweet, vulnerable kid underneath the tattoos and piercings and fierce hair. “He said he loved me, and I love him. Love will see us through.”