The Main Line Is Murder Read online

  "Wait a minute," Rip called.

  "Aunt Didi needs some chicken wire," Garry blurted. "Do you know where any is?"

  Rip detoured briefly to ask Joanne to beep Jacob to get their answer.

  "Here we go 'round the mulberry bush," I sang when Rip finally approached.

  "Huh?" he replied.

  "You've become very good at delegating."

  Pointing to himself, he asked reasonably, "Do I have any idea whether the school owns any chicken wire?"

  "Of course not," I said. "What was I thinking?"

  "Listen," he said, to focus me on what he needed to say. "The Board wants to have an emergency meeting tonight. I said they could come to our house."

  "Of course," I said. Information received.

  "We won't need any food or coffee or anything."

  "Okay."

  "Seven o'clock."

  "Okay."

  My concern had begun with the word "emergency" and grew considerably when Rip dispensed with the social amenities. Tonight's meeting would be confined to serious school business; and as I now understood, anything critical to Bryn Derwyn was of vital interest to the Barnes family proper.

  Were they planning to close the school or just brainstorming about how to repair the damage caused by the murder? Would they be commending Rip or blaming him for the current situation? Although the latter seemed unlikely to occur in our home, I really couldn't guess what to expect. All my Struve instincts geared up for battle, even though I knew this campaign belonged to my husband.

  "Do what you can do, and don't do what you can't," Cynthia Struve advised when she heard that Bryn Derwyn expected some form of participation from me. Remembering her deceptively wise advice, I mumbled a frustrated, "Yes, Mother," as I stalked down the hall into the development director's office.

  Sequestered in Randy Webb's cubicle, I hung my coat on his hook and parked myself behind his desk. The quiet helped me refocus on my afternoon's inquiries.

  If Randy was guilty of murder, whatever underhanded scheme he may have been planning would become public knowledge, especially if he killed to keep it secret. By association, Bryn Derwyn's reputation would suffer.

  Even if the development director was innocent but went to trial, his covert activities would be scrutinized and could still undermine the school's credibility.

  Which meant that if I could figure out exactly what Randy had done before his Grand Jury hearing, perhaps I could minimize the damage to the school. Maybe I could even help Randy avoid indictment.

  If I couldn't meet the Friday hearing deadline, the school community needed to learn the facts as soon as possible in order to move on. Unnamed fears always generate much more anxiety than the truth.

  Toward that end I proceeded to count every envelope and every page of paper Annie had given me. To my surprise, there were two hundred fifty-four letterheads and two hundred fifty-three envelopes. Although I tried, I couldn't decide what those figures meant, so I picked up the phone.

  The first person who answered at Audubon Offset Printing got hit with my question.

  "If I ordered 250 letterheads and envelopes, how many would I actually receive?"

  As expected, a brief silence came over the line before the woman answered, "Two hundred and fifty." I didn't blame her a bit for sounding annoyed.

  "Exactly?" I pressed. "I have a very good reason for asking."

  The woman sighed, but her voice lost its edge. "No. Not exactly. Now and then the press misses a page so the counter isn't always accurate. That's why we usually print five extra, to make sure the customer gets his complete order. Is that what you wanted to know?"

  "Yes. Thank you. You've been quite helpful."

  I hung up thinking about the school's copier. Sometimes the gizmo that grabbed each blank page failed to grasp the paper, causing the count to be short by one. Apparently, that sometimes happened with printers, too, which was why Audubon compensated by setting the machine to make a few extra copies.

  Bottom line: I couldn't tell or not whether Randy had used any of the Bryn Derwyn, Inc. letterhead.

  I locked the stuff in the desk drawer along with the breath mints, entertaining nasty suspicions about both.

  Too preoccupied to deal with the solicitation mailing, I decided to go home and let my subconscious work while I made dinner and tidied up for the Board meeting.

  I would have done it, too, except Nicky D'Avanzo happened to be sitting in the lobby staring at his feet.

  "Your aunt coming for you?" I asked without preamble.

  Treating me as any ordinary meddling mother, the seventh grader shrugged. He was a beautiful young man with dark hair and pale skin and a tight jaw that suggested stubbornness or determination. Despite his multi-colored ski jacket, I could see he was large for his age and graceful in that athletic way boys have.

  I glanced at the clock above the front doors. "Getting late," I remarked. "You sure she's coming?"

  Another shrug.

  "You call her yet?" Kids are usually pretty intolerant about any change in their routine.

  "What's the point?" he asked. "She's always late."

  Aha. Tina Longmeier's irresponsibility was the usual routine. "She ever forget?"

  This time the shrug was pure dejection.

  If the Board of Directors didn’t like the everyday mess in the Barnes’s living-room, they could lump it. I identified myself. Then I offered Nicky D’Avanzo a ride home.

  The young man brightened instantly. "Sure," he told me. "That'd be great."

  I brightened, too, pleased to have at least one teenager acknowledge me as a person today. "Shall we try to call your aunt first?"

  "Nah. We wouldn't get her." Normal kid that he was, Nicky cared little about his aunt's inconvenience as long as he got what he wanted. From all I was learning about Tina Longmeier, I had no problem with that.

  Still, before we left I briefed Joanne so she could report that Nicky was with me if Tina happened to show up.

  Some might have said I should have minded my own business, but as it turned out–I was.

  Chapter 24

  NICKY BOUNDED out of my tiny Nissan, swung his backpack over his shoulder and shouted for someone named Milly. With the early evening breeze chapping my cheeks, I leaned against my opened car door to see him safely indoors.

  The circular drive lay approximately in the center of the D'Avanzo estate, multiple acres secluded behind chain-link fencing lined with thick arborvitae. Inside, the property sprawled like a languid woman on a padded Roman lounge. At least the early dusk made the lawn appear padded, and the sheer slate-colored clouds edged in pink easily suggested a silk scarf. From my position near a marble fountain, dried and draped for winter, the house evoked thoughts of a romantic Italian movie.

  "Whoa, there, my boy," Michael D'Avanzo himself stopped Nicky in the doorway. "Milly isn't ready for you. Go wash up." He slapped his grandson fondly on the shoulder and turned to regard me.

  "Mrs. Barnes," the restaurateur greeted me. "Please come in and warm yourself a moment. Allow me to thank you for bringing Nicholas home."

  My face felt raw and a shiver was imminent, so I allowed myself to be drawn into the foyer.

  "I'm surprised you're not at your restaurant," I remarked in an attempt at casual conversation. "Weekends I still do evenings, but Wednesday..." the older gentleman made a belittling "puh" sound. "I prefer to be home for Nicholas. However, do not tell that to my chef—he expects me at any moment." He winked to share the joke of his administrative ruse.

  "Take your coat?" he asked, the consummate host.

  The courtesy surprised me, suggesting a lengthier visit than the few pleasant words I had expected. Perhaps Michael D'Avanzo was a lonelier man than I first imagined, or a more flirtatious one. But more likely and most intriguing, perhaps he had something he wanted to speak to me about and was making use of an opportunity.

  He waved his arm to direct me toward a study. "Second door on the left," he amplified. A gas fire hi
ssed in a fireplace framed in black marble beneath a carved white mantle. Leather-bound books covered three walls of the intimate room.

  Set between two wing-backed chairs upholstered in greens and burgundy was an opened bottle of Bordeaux. The fire sent rainbows to the ceiling through D’Avanzo’s faceted wine glass.

  My host opened a cherry cabinet and produced a duplicate glass. "Join me?" he offered. "It's quite an exceptional vintage."

  "Just a taste," I said. "I can't stay long." And I needed to drive home sober. I had "tasted" an exceptional vintage once before in the company of comparative strangers. The wine lighted my face like Times Square, and forming complete sentences became an interesting challenge.

  I settled into one of the chairs feeling very much out of my element. The mansion, the difference in our ages, but also D'Avanzo's hinted-at reputation played with my mind. I felt a little as if the neighbor's pit bull was tolerating a scratch behind his ears.

  Get used to it, Gin. You’re just having a drink with the grandfather of a Bryn Derwyn student.

  D'Avanzo poured an inch and a half of dark wine into my glass and stood before me while I sipped it.

  My eyes widened. If my usual red table wine was one note, this was a symphony. All sorts of contrasting flavors seemed to be bouncing around in my mouth. I sipped again and focused on the experience, then widened my eyes once more in D'Avanzo's direction. If there were words to describe what was going on with my taste buds, I didn't know them.

  D'Avanzo laughed, a deep warm sound that was both sensual and fatherly.

  Tonight he was dressed in black slacks and polished black shoes, but a pale gray cashmere cardigan hugged his white shirt instead of a suit coat. If there had been a tie, it had already been put away—neatly, I'm sure. The outfit flattered the man, causing my eyes to notice his hard-won waistline, dark eyebrows, and silvery hair. His lips were not too thin, not too thick. For a smile they held fairly straight, then curved abruptly upward.

  The grin lingered while he sat down, crossed his legs toward me, leaned closer on the armrest, and asked, "Did you know that when Nicholas attended his previous school he became physically ill every morning?"

  My mind snapped back from wherever it had been. "He did?"

  "Stress, of course,” D’Avanzo confided. “One of the teachers regularly tore his papers to shreds in front of his eyes. Poor boy. He had no idea what he was doing wrong, and still he lived in fear of making an error."

  "That's terrible," I remarked, although the story had become familiar. As educators were ever more increasingly aware, Nicky had been born with a glitch in the information-processing compartment of his brain. While his intelligence probably was quite adequate or even superior, an uninformed teacher could easily make the boy hate schoolwork and, by inference, himself.

  "Mrs. Aimes, your admission person when we interviewed, recognized Nicky's problem and recommended an extra class on learning techniques. Something about circumventing the problem?" Here D'Avanzo was less sure of his descriptions, but I knew exactly what had transpired. Testing had revealed the nature of Nicky's learning difficulty. Probably the problem was slight, because Bryn Derwyn could accommodate "learning differences" only so far. After that, a specialized school became more appropriate.

  "And what do you suppose happened?" The grandfather slapped his knees with glee.

  Although I knew what was coming, I allowed the man his moment.

  "Honor roll. Three times!" D'Avanzo made no effort to restrain his pride. His face glowed like mine would have if I’d finished the wine. He giggled self-consciously. "A new boy. He runs out to the bus now like a young stallion feeling his oats. It is truly wonderful to see."

  Then suddenly the man's face fell. As he scowled in the direction of his toes, I braced myself for the real reason I had been invited in.

  "I am very sorry about my Tina," he said, referring surely to her forgetting to pick up her nephew. "Her mother and I spoiled her, as I mentioned, but that does not excuse her neglecting her responsibilities. So often I cannot understand."

  The man's agenda was so ordinary I sighed with relief. Embarrassment over a child's behavior—so what else was new?

  I took a calculated risk and said, "Perhaps she has a touch of Nicky's problem." Even hinting indirectly that the learning difficulty might have been passed along to Nicky from his mother's side of the family could have been misconstrued; some still consider that sort of problem a stigma rather than a blameless imperfection like nearsightedness or asthma. Fortunately, D'Avanzo correctly discerned my intention.

  "No, no. You must not excuse Tina so easily. She thinks only of herself. That was why I made the arrangement to begin with, claiming I never knew when I would be free to leave my business. No, I asked her as a favor to do this one thing, and you see how she behaves."

  He stood and walked to a group of photographs, selected one and gazed at it a moment. Then he walked back and handed the silver-framed photo to me.

  I had been thinking that D'Avanzo must possess some pretty powerful leverage in order to compel his daughter, a grown woman, to interrupt her day just to transport her nephew home from school. If he objected to Nicky riding the afternoon bus, why not pay for a taxi, or even a limousine? Yet speculate as I might about him holding his money just out of his daughter's reach, his need to check up on some bad habit, or even the simple compulsion to dominate his family—whatever was going on remained D'Avanzo's private business and none of mine.

  The yellowing black and white photograph centered on a girl wearing a softball uniform. Below her cap two ragged black ponytails with pale-colored ribbons stuck out from behind her ears. Her smile lacked two front teeth. A bat rested on her left shoulder while her right arm leaned against another girl sitting on a bench. Similarly dressed but neater, there was enough family resemblance to require a clarification.

  "Is the girl on the bench Nicky's mother?" I asked.

  "What?" D'Avanzo had been daydreaming. "No, no. Tina is the one sitting. She hated sports, as you can see."

  So the imp with the missing teeth was Nicky's deceased mother. And yes, I could indeed see that Tina was not a happy athlete, if glowering resentfully at the camera was any indication.

  Despite an obvious affection for his daughter, Michael D'Avanzo still bristled at the challenge in the girl's dark eyes. What had been adorable defiance from a toddler became less endearing from the teen, intolerable coming from an adult. Much as he verbally excused his daughter's current rebellion–the most likely reason for her negligence–he probably lorded his power over her like a guillotine blade.

  D'Avanzo misread my chagrined expression. "Ah," he began in that soothing European manner. "How insensitive I am. You are troubled. That awful business at the school." He lowered himself into his chair, displaying gentlemanly sympathy with his whole body.

  I blinked over at him, unable to respond. Funny. Now that he mentioned the school, I realized my throat was tight. For the second time this afternoon, my eyes prickled with potential tears. Eddie Longmeier, Annie Webb, the bogus checkbook, and an emergency Board meeting after dinner—it had been a very long day and threatened to be an even longer evening. D'Avanzo patted my knee while I sipped wine to dissolve the lump in my throat. The day, the pat on the knee, the wine—my inhibitions went a bit lax.

  "Why would Randy Webb say he had another donor for the gym if he didn't?" I wondered aloud.

  D'Avanzo shrugged and pouted at his bookshelves. Then he met my eyes and said, "A man desperately trying to get out of jail?"

  My chest tightened around something rigid, probably my fear. I nodded thoughtfully. "I guess I'd say whatever I thought would get me out, too."

  "No, my dear," again the pat on the knee, "I believe you would only tell the truth." Then, longing to return to his daydream, he stood to dismiss me. The moment's privacy allowed me to wipe my eyes.

  We walked back to the vestibule, and I faced the man once more. "It isn't true, is it?"

  D'Avanzo’s
demeanor chilled, the sudden stiffness making his silver hair and colorless clothes appear brittle.

  "No," the patriarch answered from guillotine height.

  After the front door closed, I released my shudder.

  Chapter 25

  AGAINST THE now-completed darkness, spotlights illuminated D'Avanzo's driveway and every angle of the house. Heavy drapes had been drawn by an unseen hand to shield against the artificial brightness. At night the place looked very stagey, very intimidating.

  With a music of pings and pops a motor worked at opening the tall halves of the chain-link gate I hadn't noticed earlier. Haunted now by D'Avanzo's range of moods, I managed to drive myself off the property.

  Traffic remained sporadic along the narrow tributaries threading through D'Avanzo's upscale neighborhood but thickened as soon as I approached the Main Line's main artery, Lancaster Avenue.

  My dashboard clock told me it was 5:10 PM—time to order pizza if the Barneses were to be ready for company by seven. The Board meeting could do without the clatter of me doing dishes anyway. Probably the kids should do their homework wearing headphones.

  I pulled into a parking spot to make the call, ordered a large pepperoni, and reassured the youth who answered the phone that their driver knew exactly how to find us.

  For the next twenty-five minutes I devoted myself to the demanding protocol of rush-hour traffic, and with a sigh of relief followed the pizza delivery man into the school's driveway. I paid him off outside our door and swept into the living room feeling like Florence Nightingale, or at least Florence Henderson.

  "Where have you been?" Chelsea quizzed. She was still a willowy five-foot-two, the size and shape fashion magazines have been using to push clothes for women who haven't been svelte since they were twelve. Fortunately, Chelsea's face was too innocent for modeling, and at the moment too angry.

  "Yeah," Garry echoed.

  "Dad's been worried," Chelsea added.

  "Yeah, me, too," echoed my son. Our dog twirled around under the pizza box.