by Kate Wilhelm
“What would you do with a million dollars? Or five million?” Charlie asked almost idly.
“Spend it,” Lawrence said without hesitation. “Spend it all before the world ends in 2012, or 2020, whichever is the right date. If it didn’t end, I’d have great memories and be back where I am now, and I know my part in this script. Wouldn’t have to learn new lines or anything.”
“No school? Ted seemed to think you wanted to establish a school of some sort.”
“Ted’s full of it,” Lawrence said. “Look, he was getting under my skin moaning and groaning about the damn farm, paying more for fertilizer, seeds, equipment, everything he needs to buy, and getting less and less all the time for what he has to sell. I don’t have a farm to save, or kids to educate, no sinking business heading for bankruptcy, and Ted seems to think I should have all that shit. He’s fucking jealous of me, so I gave him a school to brood about.”
“You stuck with Yoga, didn’t you?”
“That’s not a religion. It’s a great way to relax and let things go, plus good physical exercise. You should try it.”
Considering the various poses practitioners assumed, Charlie thought it highly unlikely that he would be tempted to try it.
“What do you recall from that day when Howard nearly died and the girl drowned?” he asked.
“Why bring that up?”
“Maybe all this started then. Maybe not. Just covering bases.”
Lawrence shrugged. “We were there every summer from the time I could remember. Hiking in the woods, playing cowboys and Indians, Robin Hood and his gang, swimming, a little fishing. Summer-camp stuff. But it wasn’t working anymore. We were too old for it, and not old enough to think a rocker on the porch was summer vacation high-life. Atlantic City would have been more in line with guys our age by then. Howard and Mary Beth got there late in the afternoon that day. We were bored and they were fresh targets for kidding, so we kidded them. We were all scruffy, shorts, tank tops, barefoot or in sandals, old beat-up sneakers, camp stuff. And they were still in city cloths, high heels for her, suit for him, born targets for some ragging. He took her out to go rowing and we went to the rec room to play Ping-Pong or something. That’s what we did in there, Ping-Pong, board games, music. Jesus, I had my nineteenth birthday just a week before that, the others were in their twenties and we were bored out of our skulls. You can only do so much swimming and we didn’t give a shit about fishing. There was a TV but the reception was lousy and we hardly ever turned it on. Then Mother screamed and Dad was running around looking for his car keys. We took two cars to the clinic. And we waited. And waited.”
His voice was steady and without any evident emotion until near the end when it dropped to a near whisper.
“What was wrong with the boat?” Charlie asked. “Why did it get swamped and sink?”
“I didn’t see it,” Lawrence said after a moment. “Look, Charlie, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a camp like that. It was crude, really rough, meant for guys who wanted to fish and drink, and in hunting season good enough for hunters. Tramp around the woods by day, drink beer or whatever by the fire by night. Play cards. Drink. They didn’t care how it looked or how much it needed repairs. For the most part, when we were young we didn’t either, and probably Dad got it cheap during the off season. There were three rowboats, but two were chained up and we couldn’t use them. The one we did use seemed okay. Old but okay. Dad went out fishing in the early morning a lot of times, he did that day, and it was okay. They said when they hauled it out that a board had come loose, was all the way out from the keel or something. Mary Beth’s hair had got snagged on a nail, and when Howard was trying to free her, the boat rolled and flipped over. They think it hit his head, stunned him. He could have saved himself before that.” He had regained a matter-of-fact manner as if reciting history that was not very interesting to him.
Neither spoke for a minute or two. Then Lawrence said, “Are we done here?”
“One more thing,” Charlie said. “Tell me about the drive-by shooting that killed your friend.”
“Jesus Christ! What does that have to do with anything?” He tensed and appeared ready to spring to his feet and dash out.
“I don’t know,” Charlie said. “What happened back then?”
Lawrence rubbed his eyes and drank. Without looking at Charlie he said, “Her name was Vickie. I’d dropped out of school, a year and a half majoring in business, for Christ sake. I headed for New York City.” He was speaking fast, almost running the words together. “Got a job backstage at the old Harris Theater. It’s gone now, but then it was one of the off-Broadway theaters where playwrights, actors, directors all could get a start.”
Charlie nodded. He knew about the old theater, one of the worst firetraps in the city when he was still an arson investigator.
“Vickie tried out for a part and we met,” Lawrence said in the same staccato, clipping his words in his rapid speech. “We clicked. She was studying voice, acting school, the whole bit. We were living together in my dump of an apartment, keeping different hours, but together. She got a part in a new play. So she’d be at the theater for rehearsals, then just hang out awhile. That night, she left about ten. I was at work until midnight. Eyewitnesses saw the whole thing out in front of the theater. A car slowed down, shots, then the guy sped away and she was gone.”
He jerked up from his chair. “Now we’re done. I’m getting another drink.” He walked swiftly to the door and left.
Charlie looked at his watch. He would give Lawrence ten minutes to get his drink and take refuge out of sight somewhere. He no longer wondered if Lawrence had studied theology before or after Vickie was gunned down. Her death following Mary Beth’s might have driven him to seek answers. Evidently he had not found them. Interesting, he thought then, that Lawrence had dropped out of school before he met Vickie.
When he strolled out to the hall, Constance was approaching.
“Alice is putting dishes on the table,” she said. “Do you want to eat here?”
“Nope. Let’s get Tricia to hand over that stuff she has and head back to the gingerbread house.”
“Time to unpack,” Constance said. “And compare notes.”
“In due time,” Charlie said with a leer. “In due time.”
7
AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK ON TUESDAY CHARLIE and Constance were admitted to Debra Rasmussen’s office in the college administration building. She had called earlier and said she was anxious to talk to them as soon as possible. She met them at her office door and told her secretary to hold calls, tell people she was in conference or something.
She appeared far less self possessed than she had before. “Thanks for taking time to see me,” she said, motioning to a several chairs near a window across from her desk, which was nearly covered with papers. “Would you like coffee? It’s made.”
“That would be good,” Constance said. “Coffee makes everything easier, doesn’t it?”
“I find it so,” Debra said. She served the coffee and sat across a table from them. “There were a few things that I thought you might find helpful, although at the moment I can’t think why.” She sipped coffee, put her cup down, and ran her hand through her hair. It looked as if she had been doing that a lot. “That damned house,” she said. “I wish I’d never heard of Howard Bainbridge and his damn house.” She drew in a breath. “My trustees are insisting on a meeting. They’ve heard rumors of a fortune concealed there and they are demanding a discussion to consider exactly what is at stake, how the college is involved, what we should do. It’s a mess.”
“Alice?” Constance asked.
“Alice. Someone will throttle her one day, and there will be a collective sigh of relief in town. She’s also talking about a curse. And this is such a busy week, with students arriving this weekend with parents in tow, orientation next week, cl
asses to follow, music in the park every night starting tomorrow, and a big musical performance scheduled for Saturday night. Dinners, receptions… ”
Constance nodded sympathetically. “And the bequest of a million-dollar house to consider. Will you tell the trustees all of it now?”
“I almost have to, since there’s so much talk about a hidden fortune. And the college can use the money. Donors are cutting back or not contributing at all. We’ve had to reduce staff, put a few people on part-time. Mouths are watering for a windfall. If we end up with the house and manage to sell it… A million dollars doesn’t sound like much these days, but to a small college like ours, it would be a miracle. They’re already fighting over who gets how much, for what purpose. I just can’t imagine why Howard Bainbridge did this, but I know he didn’t care about the house any more than I do.”
“What do you mean?” Constance asked.
“I talked to the Realtor who arranged the sale for him, to find out what the current value might be. He said close to a million, possibly more. Bert, that’s Bert Holmquist, said that Bainbridge really wanted to buy the old fishing camp where the family had spent time years ago. Out of the question, of course. It’s Lakeview Resort now, definitely not for sale. Then he wanted any house with a lakefront and there wasn’t any for sale. Bert said he was angry about it and said he’d settle for anything not in town, anything with a little privacy, and that house was available. He hardly even looked it over, but it’s a very fine structure, custom designed, custom built, and the price tag was one million two hundred thousand. He didn’t quibble or haggle, just took it and paid cash. The will was read in the house, and it’s appalling. He didn’t do a thing with it, brought in junk furniture, no carpeting for the most part… ” She frowned and shook her head. “Sorry, none of that is of concern to you.
“What I thought you might want to know concerns Howard Bainbridge, however. As I mentioned, I looked him up after I was informed about the bequest. He didn’t give a damn about the college, never had a connection with it except for that one scholarship. When the girl drowned, Dr. Wilkerson, the former president here, wrote to him about the remainder of the scholarship money, asked how he wanted it handled, and Bainbridge said to return it to him. That’s unusual, perhaps even unprecedented. But the remainder was returned to him and that was the end of that.”
“What else is on your mind?” Charlie asked when Debra paused. “There is something else, isn’t there?”
“Yes, and I don’t know what it means, if anything. I talked to Sonia Talmadge, Dr. Wilkerson’s secretary and now mine. She comes with the office. I asked her if she had any knowledge of what happened, why Andrea dropped out when her grades were so good. She had a three-point-six grade average, newly married, apparently doing very well, and suddenly she dropped out without giving a reason. Sonia remembered clearly.” She lifted her coffee, sipped again.
“Sonia told me that Andrea came to the office, very agitated, and said she had to see Dr. Wilkerson. Well, he was out of town and Andrea demanded that Sonia tell her if Bainbridge was the one who had provided her scholarship. Sonia tried to evade the question, but she isn’t a good liar, or her expression gave it away, or something else. Andrea turned pale and for a moment Sonia thought she was ill, that she might faint. Andrea went to the door, paused, and said without looking back that she wouldn’t be needing the rest of the scholarship, she was through. She never came back, according to Sonia. When she brought it up with Dr. Wilkerson, he suggested that Andrea might be pregnant and dismissed it.”
“Pamela Bainbridge seemed to think that Bainbridge was seeing Andrea, that he was in the area. You doubted it. Is it possible that he really was around?” Charlie asked.
“Remember, I wasn’t on the scene,” she said. “But it seems so unlikely that I don’t believe it. This is a very small town, you know. He would have been noticed, people would have talked.” She grimaced and spread her hands. “Believe me, people talk. Earlier, there simply wasn’t time before she came. She was eighteen and living in Newton when the scholarship was arranged, and it took most of a year to locate her. It appears that Bainbridge didn’t know where she was, and assumed she was still here in town. After she arrived and started school, there was even less time. She got involved with Earl Marshall, they married, and she continued to be an excellent student, which in itself takes a good deal of time. But Howard Bainbridge was the reason she got the scholarship in the first place, and presumably when she learned it was from him, she dropped out. I don’t know why. It just doesn’t make sense. Maybe during that last year they were seeing each other and kept it so secret that no one suspected a thing. Unlikely in a town like this, but I suppose it was possible. I can’t imagine where he would have stayed without it being known. Remember, he didn’t move here until four years ago and she died twelve years ago.”
She ran her hand through her hair again, glanced at her watch and said, “That’s what I wanted to tell you. It seemed inappropriate to tell the family that Howard Bainbridge was so stingy with money that he wanted it back instead of allowing it to go into the our scholarship endowment fund. God knows the college could have used it.”
They all stood and as they went to the door, she added, “I hope to God that you or the family find those checks. That’s my nightly prayer, that it’s found before we take possession.”
At the door Constance asked, “By any chance do you know if Professor Oglethorp is still in the area?”
“Ethel? Yes, she’s here. She must be eighty, but she still gives a slide show for biology students every year. She spent two or three months in Costa Rica a year ago and has a lovely slide show of birds from there. Students used to call her the Bird Lady. She’s a professor emeritus these days, not teaching any longer. Why do you ask?”
“We’re still filling in some blanks,” Constance said. “The newspaper accounts we’ve read mentioned that Andrea was at Professor Oglethorp’s house the day she saw the accident at the lake. She might have a different perspective on the events.”
“What on earth can that have to do with anything happening today?”
“I don’t know,” Charlie said. “Maybe nothing. But we like our packages tied up nice and tidy with no sharp points sticking out. Her address?”
Debra gave them directions to Professor Oglethorp’s house, they thanked her and walked out to the car.
“Oglethorp?” Charlie asked, pulling away from the curb.
“Of course,” she said. “The Bainbridge crew will wonder what happened to us.”
“Let them stew. Good for them. Onward.”
They drove past the gingerbread house and Charlie looked at it fondly. “Home sweet home,” he said. “It’s worth putting up with the talk machine just to have breakfast on the terrace.”
Constance laughed softly. “You certainly showed your appreciation.”
“And I’ll do it again tomorrow. Why don’t we have croissants every morning at home?”
“Be warned. If I ever start that, it will mean that I’ll be ordering widow’s weeds. Keep an eye out for birds.”
Debra had said, “When you see birdhouses hanging from everything that will support them, that’s it.”
The birdhouses came into view and Charlie pulled into a driveway. The house was a two-story white-frame building that looked as if it had been there for a century. It needed a coat of paint, and wild growth around it could have been trimmed into submission but hadn’t been. It appeared that all the trees and bushes bore fruits of one kind or another—Russian olives, cotoneasters, ground cherries, huckleberries, lingonberries…
“For the birds,” Constance murmured.
Charlie thought so too, but he had a different definition of what the phrase meant. They mounted a wide porch and he rang the bell. A whip-poor-will call sounded followed by the yelping of a dog.
The woman who opened the door was di
minutive, five feet tall, possibly a hundred ten pounds, with hair dazzling white and tightly curled. Gold-framed eyeglasses were nestled in her curly hair. Her eyes were bright blue. A poodle was dancing about her feet, barking excitedly. She told it to hush. It kept yapping.
“Yes?” she said. “Are you lost?”
“Professor Oglethorp?” Charlie asked.
“I am. Who are you?”
“Then we’re not lost,” Charlie said. “We’d like very much to talk to you, Professor.” He introduced Constance and himself.
“Oh, you’re the people looking for all that money, aren’t you? Mr. Meiklejohn, I don’t have it and I don’t know where it is. Was there anything else?”
Before Charlie could respond Constance said, “Professor Oglethorp, we didn’t come about the money. Actually we’d like to talk to you about an accident that happened thirty years ago, when a girl was drowned in the lake and Howard Bainbridge was injured.”
“Why?” the professor asked.
“I think that in order to grasp the present, one must have grappled with the past. History can be a good teacher.”
Professor Oglethorp looked her up and down, then nodded. “Exactly so. Well, come on in. This is Bonita, and she’s a drama queen. I told you to hush that,” she ordered the dog, and this time, with the strangers accepted and crossing the threshold, the little dog stopped yapping.
“There’s another one, Bummer, but he’s probably hiding somewhere and just doesn’t want to be bothered. He’s eighteen years old and a coward. Always was a coward and age hasn’t changed a thing except now he doesn’t pretend. They don’t bite. I prefer cats, but at least dogs leave the birds alone. This way. As long as the weather holds, I prefer to spend my time out back.”
Her house was cluttered with knick-knacks, framed pictures on tables, books here and there, an open magazine on a sofa. They continued on to her preferred room, a screened-in sun porch with orange-and-white-covered rattan furnishings and bird pictures crowded on the back wall, watercolors and photographs. Many of the paintings were signed with the initials E.O. Her work. It was a beautiful art collection, the birds exquisitely rendered in watercolor. The view of the lake was unobstructed by trees or shrubs. It looked very blue and sparkly in the sunshine.