The Main Line Is Murder Read online

  "Explain."

  Kevin leaned against the wall, looking quite at ease. "You promise you won't tell?"

  "No deal. Let's hear it."

  "Okay, but don't tell Patrice. She's embarrassed enough about learning how to read at her age."

  "You're borrowing easy-readers for Patrice? To practice? Wow, why didn't she say something?"

  "Like I said—she's embarrassed. Lots of adults who can't read are embarrassed about it. Otherwise, they'd probably ask for help. I found out about Patrice when she couldn't figure out how to operate the new washing machine. I told her to read the instructions, and she started to cry. Jeez, I felt like shit. So I made her a deal. She'd try to learn, and I'd keep it between her and me."

  "Of course." I'd once seen Patrice leaning on a dust mop outside a classroom listening to the teacher. I’d assumed she was goofing off, when she probably had been trying to learn something. Dumb, dumb, dumb—of me. I simply had to stop jumping to conclusions.

  "Kevin, you're wonderful. And I promise not to tell. In fact if I can help...?"

  "Nah. It's covered. She's coming along real fast. It used to take her a week to read three books. Now she returns them overnight."

  "But what do you say to the librarian? You're not even married."

  "They're for my niece."

  "Nice. You're really nice." I felt excessively proud of him, also inordinately pleased that I had suggested him for the business manager's job. He belonged here. I wasn't sure I could say that much for myself.

  "So does that mean you no longer think I'm guilty of murder?" he pressed.

  "I never wanted to think that in the first place."

  "But you were desperate."

  "Yeah." I touched his cheek with my hand. "I really am sorry, Kev." Then I eased my way past him through the door.

  "That's what all the women say when they leave."

  I smiled all the way down the hall and all the way through the lobby until I was outside.

  Then the wind and snow slapped every warm sentiment right out of my head.

  Chapter 27

  THE SNOW SWIRLED erratically, curling in eddies around my feet. Wind gusts swept the cement sidewalk clean, but our lawn and the grass around the school’s parking lots were a dirty, crusted gray. It reminded me of a black and white version of Dickens's A Christmas Carol and Scrooge trying to blame his personal nightmare on a bit of undercooked potato. Sadly, the men and women in my living room weren’t being nearly that logical.

  "I think we need a consultant, a professional to handle this," somebody remarked as I opened the door.

  "Excuse me," I said, hurrying through my ill-chosen, multi-textured decor to the stairs. "Sorry to interrupt." I didn’t bother to hang up my coat, just raced up the stairs, glanced in on Garry and Chelsea, and plopped down on my own bed.

  "I thought that was what we hired Mr. Barnes here for. Why go to the expense?"

  "Oh? Has he dealt with a murder before?"

  "No. No, of course not..."

  "Has anyone else around here? Any educator, I mean?"

  "Well, yes, actually. There was that one scandal..."

  "And is the school still in business?" Rip’s voice sounded calm, I thought, a message in and of itself.

  The reply was an aggrieved, "Yes" as if the speaker believed no school should expect to survive a tragedy or scandal.

  "It hasn’t been proven that Randy did anything wrong,” Rip continued. “We don’t even know if the murder has any connection to Bryn Derwyn except for the unfortunate fact that it happened here.

  “I understand that some parents are worried about their child’s safety, and I don’t fault them for that. But this talk about shutting down strikes me as patently premature. Even irresponsible. If we appear to be panicking, the school really will have to close. But if we behave sensibly, we should be fine."

  "What do you suggest?"

  "Implement extra security precautions, mainly to reassure some of the more emotional parents. Do whatever we can to reassure ourselves that the school was not involved in Richard's death. Assist the police in their efforts..."

  "You sound as if you don't think Randy Webb is guilty."

  "There is some doubt. He hasn't been indicted yet. Or tried."

  "Well, by then..."

  "Innocent until proven guilty."

  "You can't be that naive."

  I had been holding my breath. Now I wanted to yell, "What about the Constitution, you dodo?" or something similar. Rip remained silent, allowing the negative Board member's prejudice to speak for itself.

  Garry padded into the room, turning on a light and showing me how grim a nine-year-old can look. Adults were not supposed to argue like that, not within earshot of children. It was unnerving enough for another adult. My son snuggled against my side, and I surrounded him with my arm. Rested my head against his. Chelsea had seen my light go on and wandered in, too.

  "What's happening?" she mouthed silently.

  I shrugged. "Daddy's winning," I mouthed back, although there was no way to know. She nodded and went back to her room, to her homework or doodles or headphones.

  The night table alarm clock said nearly nine, so I suggested that Garry get ready for bed. "Dad will tell us about it later," I assured him. He let go of me and headed for the bathroom.

  I stopped listening about that point, giving my own thoughts their rein. Curiously, I began thinking about our house, about the upcoming holiday and how, since the murder, I was especially counting on our favorite family rituals to finish bonding me to the place.

  Maybe I needed to adjust my attitude. Maybe if I resuscitated my nesting instinct, finally made the bedspread and drapes to match the green bedroom carpet, tore down my already faded, dust-producing burlap living room drapes and tried again, fixed that closet doorknob, molly-bolted that curtain rod, lifted that bail, toted that barge—maybe I would get over the notion that we were scarcely tolerated visitors in a house that belonged to the school. Maybe then it would become our home, with or without the help of holiday rituals.

  Assuming, of course, that circumstances permitted us to stay.

  "Mom!" Garry called from the bathroom. "Why isn't there any hot water?"

  HALF AN HOUR later, Rip woke me with a kiss. I was curled on top of the covers wrapped in my wool coat. "We need another hot water heater," I announced.

  "Isn't this one still under warranty?"

  "So it is. Tell me, how did the meeting go?"

  "They were scared. Some of them actually wanted to talk about what we should do if too many students withdrew..."

  "One guy seemed positive the school was going under."

  "Kravitz. He's a dunce. Nobody took him seriously."

  "Except maybe me."

  "He's a dunce. Don't take him seriously." I recognized husband talk when I heard it. Rip wanted me to forget that many of the more rational Board members were also preparing for the worst. Was I supposed to believe they, too, were alarmists?

  "So you think everything's going to be okay?"

  "Yes. If Kravitz puts a muzzle on it. A bunch of them made that point very clear toward the end. Everybody is to wear a pretty face. If we sound confident that Bryn Derwyn will survive—it will. I think Kravitz got the message."

  Gymnasts do acrobatics on a balance beam four inches wide. Limber, young girls do flips and back bends and all sorts of tricks set to music. But if they lean too far right or left, the routine is over—beyond remedy.

  "So you think the meeting was worthwhile?"

  "Yes."

  Was my husband still performing? Staying in character for my benefit? "You don't have to bullshit me," I said. "I can take the truth."

  Rip's green eyes snapped to attention. "It's not BS," he said. "We're going to be fine." He appeared peeved, and not just because he hates to hear me swear.

  "Okay?" he asked. He wanted me to put on a pretty face, too, to stick with the program, to do cartwheels on the beam.

  "Okay," I said, bec
ause now I knew the front wasn't for me; it was for him.

  My White Knight. My genuine good guy. Dreamer. Believer in one person making a difference. All of those things. BS-ing himself that it was all going to work out because that's what he needed to do to bring it off.

  I told him I loved him and pulled him close.

  He enjoyed what I was suggesting for a moment then wiggled himself loose.

  "Kids still awake?" I asked, taking the rejection hard.

  "Nah. Sleeping like babies. I just checked."

  "So what then?" I'm the sort who demands satisfaction; a magazine quiz told me so.

  "I've got to get up at five, babe."

  "Why!"

  "To decide about school, whether to open or not."

  "But I thought..." What about the pretty face, the solidarity?

  Rip latched onto my thought and smiled. Then he walked over to the window and pushed the curtain aside. "It's snowing, remember? I have to decide whether to close school or not."

  The proverbial Snow Day. "I thought the maintenance people decided that, or maybe God."

  "Nope. You're looking at him."

  "Oh my God," I teased.

  "Maybe some other night."

  "Damn," I said.

  This time Rip seemed to approve my choice of words.

  Chapter 28

  OUR ALARM WOKE us at five Thursday morning. Rip pulled on sweatpants and boots below his bathrobe then went downstairs to listen for any school closings on Philadelphia's news radio while he watched the Weather Channel on cable TV.

  When I heard the front door open, I hurried over to the window. By our front light I could see crisp snowflakes stuck sideways to tree trunks, and the yard glittered with scarcely half an inch accumulation.

  Bryn Derwyn's head meteorologist emerged into the light. While his dog drowsily peed on the nearest bush, Rip tested the sidewalk with the toe of his boot. The rubber sole caught, abruptly halting his scuffing motion. Placing hands on his hips, Rip tested for slipperiness once again with the same result. Dog and Headmaster reentered the house. Morale would be low in classrooms all over the Delaware valley.

  A minute later I heard Barney's hearty "oof" as he flopped down onto Garry's warm bed. Rip reset his alarm and snuggled back with me.

  He slept. I replayed and reworded what I'd heard of last night's meeting.

  By breakfast, the sky promised a warm powder blue that would melt and dry any evidence of winter by noon. Chelsea seemed privately pleased, perhaps because her between-class social life would continue without interruption. Garry was so depressed I considered introducing him to coffee.

  Rip dressed and ate with his usual morning cheer, or else he was practicing his PR. He caught me loading my favorite plastic Phillies cup into the dishwasher.

  "Hey," he said with concern. "I thought you never put that in there. What's up?" He nuzzled my neck.

  True, I had snapped at every family member more than once for putting my World Series souvenir at risk. "Hand wash only," I barked, yanking it out of the automatic dishwasher, "or you'll have me to deal with." Thanks to my vigilance, the colorful printing had held up beautifully.

  I turned to cuddle my husband and explain. "I'm practicing what I preach: Possessions don't matter. People do."

  "Very noble, I'm sure. But do you really want to start with that cup?"

  "Have to," I answered. Garry's prized hat was gone, and the only comparable thing I owned was that cup. "If I don't do this, my entire credibility as a mother comes under suspicion."

  Rip kissed my forehead and pulled away. "God forbid," he said, heading for the door.

  "Tease," I replied. "See you over there—I'm finishing that mailing today for sure."

  "And about time, too."

  But first I fed Barney, put in a load of wash, made the beds, tidied the living room, and took out chicken to thaw for dinner. Eventually, I showered and dressed in school-employee clothes—today a fringed, long, gray wool skirt, black boots, a teal turtleneck, and an Indian-print blazer in mostly gray and aqua. Warm and stylish, too. Mother would be proud.

  About ten I tucked into my long overcoat and trotted through the sunshine into Bryn Derwyn's lobby.

  My timing could not have been better, because just as I arrived, Emily Wrigley asked Ruth, the receptionist, if she needed any help. Although the forty-year-old fifth grader was supposed to be in study hall, apparently she already knew everything so she was free.

  "Ruth," I called, hurrying to join them. "If you don't have anything for Emily, she can help me with a mailing." Please, begged my eyes, if not my whole body.

  "Sure," said Ruth with surprise. Get this kid out of my face and thank you very much.

  "C'mon, Emily," I corralled the girl, "we've got envelopes to stuff."

  "Uh, okay," said the fifth grader with appropriate suspicion. Usually she couldn't beg an office job. I heard she rearranged desk drawers when people weren't looking.

  As I approached the fire door leading to Randy's office, Emily lagged behind.

  "What's the matter?" I asked foolishly.

  "I, uh, oh. Nothing." She seemed tall, standing by herself in the empty hallway, and I thought of how quickly Garry seemed to grow. In a year or two Emily would hit puberty. She would become preoccupied with new hairstyles and tormenting boys; in the meantime, desk drawers and stuffing envelopes—anything for adult attention.

  "Well, c'mon then. We've got work to do."

  "Where?"

  "Where the envelopes are. Let's go."

  Emily sulked along behind me fingering the right-hand wall. When I reached Kevin's office, she was ten feet behind. When I reached Randy's, twenty. The Community Room door stood several feet further along to the left.

  While I waited in the development doorway, Emily sighed dramatically before hurrying inside. If the work had been located in the Community Room, she probably would have run home screaming. Impressionable girl.

  With a minimum of dialogue she and I soon became a fold and stuff duo. Emily had done this before, and she was good. Plus she was devoting herself to the chore as if it would stave off world hunger.

  "You're scared," I observed.

  Behind her glasses, her eyes shone like blue Christmas balls, pretty ones, but fragile.

  I couldn't help myself, I pulled her in for a hug. She sniffled on my sleeve.

  She had been standing to work while I sat to fold letters. Now I pulled Randy's spare chair over and parked the girl on it.

  "I'm sorry you're scared, Emily," I said, my sincerity also chin-deep in guilt. This was a ten-year-old, after all. A precocious, self-important, screaming-for-attention one, but still one hundred percent child. I needed to remember that.

  "Are you uncomfortable being in Mr. Webb's office?"

  A nod.

  "He's not here, Emily. He can't get to you or anyone else right now."

  Her silence eloquently reminded us both of why Randy was presently in jail—and who was responsible for it.

  "You think he killed Mr. Wharton, don't you? Did you see him do it?"

  A negative head shake.

  "But you did see something frightening."

  A vigorous nod that freed her shirttail from the waistband of her uniform kilt, The Compleat Emily Wrigley. I almost hugged her again; that is, until she told me, "Mr. Webb's hands were bloody. I saw him wiping them on his handkerchief."

  "Are you sure that's true, Emily? Are you sure you didn't see something else, or maybe imagine it?"

  The fragile blue eyes widened as far as they would go. "No. I swear." Perhaps she protested a little too much, but there was enough you've-got-to-believe-me in her voice that despite my bias, I did.

  I stared over her shoulder at the off-white wall for a long moment before I asked, "Where was Mr. Webb when you saw him?"

  "In the back parking lot, walking toward his car."

  "And where were you?"

  "Messing around the swings waiting for my bus."

  "When does
your bus come?"

  "Three-fifty." One of the later ones.

  "That's where you wait every day?"

  "Yeah. Unless it's raining." Of course.

  "Where was the teacher who had bus duty?"

  "Cameron Ingles fell and cut his knee, so she took him to get a band-aid. I was the only one left."

  Risky decision, I thought, leaving a student unsupervised. Not often done these days.

  Emily perceived my concern about the teacher's judgment, because she said, "Cameron was crying like crazy, and anyway I was supposed to go get them if the bus came early, but it didn't."

  So Randy Webb left the school wiping blood, or to be fair, something red, off his hands at about 3:45 PM on Friday—early for an administrator to leave, perfect timing if he happened to have just committed murder.

  Depression completely displaced any guilt I felt over questioning Emily. At last I understood why Newkirk had arrested Randy so promptly. His "witness's" habitual theatrics were absent from her report. Even her normally cocksure chin trembled. In this instance at least, Emily's desire to be grown up had slipped into hibernation. She came across as mature enough to know what she saw but youthful enough not to lie about it. I would have arrested Randy, too.

  Yet something about Emily's information just didn't sit right.

  To get to the back parking lot from the Community Room, you had to cross the lobby, proceed down another short hall and go out through double doors. So why hadn't Randy cleaned himself up at the scene of the crime? He also could have washed up properly along the way in either the boys' room or the faculty lavatory with little risk of being noticed at that hour.

  Furthermore, what about the Dustbuster? The absence of ordinary debris around the victim seemed to indicate a killer with presence of mind, not one who would vacuum the table and floor and forget to clean his own hands.

  The bell signaling the end of Emily's study hall ended our time together and temporarily my speculations. I thanked the girl and told her I thought she was right to speak up about what she saw. She did not look especially convinced, which convinced me even more that she was accurately describing Randy's actions.

  After she had gone, my face sagged. Kravitz, the doom-saying Board member, was more right than anyone else realized.