The Main Line Is Murder Read online

  Chelsea agreed to try.

  Didi's current work number was stuck on the refrigerator under a coupon for Froot Loops.

  "Amigo," she greeted me. Presently, my best friend was hostessing for a Mexican restaurant down the pike from the beer distributorship she owned, a convenient commute and one of her more logical reasons for taking a job.

  I told her why I was calling.

  "This was your idea, right?" she guessed. Already her voice had time-warped me to pigtails and back.

  "Rip's," I admitted.

  "Really? He must be desperate." A true statement, but I held my tongue.

  "Hang on a sec." Didi moved the phone away from her mouth. "Mario," she shouted loud enough for me to hear. "Mario, dear, I'm terribly sorry, but I have to quit." Mumble, mumble. "Family emergency." Mumble, mumble.

  The lie felt like a shadow passing across my head.

  "What's it pay?" Didi asked when she came back on the line.

  "Haven't a clue." Or maybe I had; this was Bryn Derwyn Academy we were talking about. "Very little," I amended.

  She asked me a few questions, such as how long the program was supposed to be, how many kids were involved, their ages, and so on. They were sensible questions, so I allowed myself to be reassured.

  After we rung off, I called something endearing to the kids, put on an old jacket, and did one abominable little ballet jump Didi taught me on the way back to school.

  Both the lobby and outer office were deserted. Through Rip's opened office door I saw him and a few teachers gathered for a meeting. Joanne seemed to be taking notes. Probably just everyday business. I waited outside the door until I caught Rip's eye, then I gave him the thumb's up signal to indicate that Didi was on board. Rip grinned and nodded, his eyes conveying that special warmth he reserves for me and the kids.

  So I was feeling a bit warm and glowy myself when I headed back to the Community Room. I also felt a bit rushed because it was pushing four o'clock and I would have to hurry to get much done before it was time to go home and cook dinner.

  Once again the Community Room was closed, but this time I heard no voices. When I knocked, no one answered. Kevin's and Randy's offices had been empty when I passed by, so I assumed they both had left for the weekend. The couple the school attorney had been negotiating with was also gone, but not Richard Wharton.

  When I opened the door, he was sprawled face down across the conference table, the back of his head a shattered mess.

  Chapter 3

  MY HAND FLEW off the doorknob. The soft click of the door latch spooked me further into the room. I was alone with Richard's corpse.

  Suppressing the need to run, I hugged in a deep breath then whistled it out.

  Calm your breathing, that's right. Then try to think.

  Okay. Finish looking. Finish looking and then you can go.

  The position of Richard’s body appeared benign, as if his death were a passing whim of fate. One second he had been sitting at a table collecting a pile of papers, the next he was sprawled forward with a shattered skull.

  Moved by sympathy, I reached toward Richard's arm, my hand anticipating the rough tweed of his brown sport jacket even as I brought myself up short. Television police forever warned about disturbing a murder scene.

  Murder. My mind grappled with the incomprehensible. How could anyone do this–ever?

  Soon I would force my frozen body to leave, to report Richard’s death and set the process of the law into motion. Meanwhile, my heightened sensitivities continued to record the room. Although I probably spent only half a minute assimilating Richard’s appearance, those thirty seconds made an indelible impression.

  Now I noticed that the most visible paper on the table bore the name of the parents who were delinquent with their tuition payments. The box of extra large T-shirts remained on the table at the same angle as before I left. The notebooks and pencils and baseball caps–everything appeared untouched. The overhead lights remained on. The five chairs at Richard’s end of the table had been jostled, probably used by Kevin and the couple to whom Richard had been speaking.

  Only the groundbreaking shovel was out of place. Looking incongruous and unnaturally clean, trimmed with a large, loopy bow in the school’s trademark dark green, it had originally rested in the corner near the box of brochures. Standing, it might have been waist high to me, and it had a Y-shaped metal thing fixed to the top end with a wooden handhold like most short gardening shovels.

  Now it lay on the floor near where I’d been working. A small smear of blood suggested it had skidded or bounced a few feet after the killer flung it behind him. Or her. I was not an especially large woman, but with a nicely balanced little shovel, I could cause plenty of damage if...if what?

  It was time to get the hell out of there and call the police. Let them ask if, and what, and why.

  I pulled my jacket cuff down over my hand before I opened the door. Then I sprinted down the hall into the lobby, nearly colliding with Jacob, the maintenance supervisor.

  I put both hands on his chest to steady myself, to reassure myself he was real.

  "What’s wrong?" he asked.

  “Something terrible, Jacob. A man’s been murdered. I’m going to call the police. Please stand at the front door and keep everybody here.”

  Jacob's complexion had turned ashen all the way back to his remaining band of dark hair. Sweat beaded his upper lip.

  "Who?” he asked. “Where?”

  Already jogging toward the main office, I answered over my shoulder in a hushed voice. “Wharton. Richard Wharton. He’s in the Community Room. But don’t say anything. Just guard the door and tell everyone Rip will be right out.”

  Jacob wiped his lip with his hand and nodded solemnly. When I glanced back again, he had stationed himself between the two main doors. He wasn’t much bigger than me, but if I had come face to face with him just then, I would have stayed put–if only to find out what was going on.

  Joanne and the teachers who had been with Rip had scattered around the outer office, one reading mail, two chatting quietly. Joanne spoke into the phone.

  “Stay here,” I told them all. “Don’t move an inch.”

  I entered Rip’s office and shut the door tight behind me.

  My husband rose slowly from his chair. “What?” he asked, instinctively gravitating toward me.

  My answer stopped him like a slap. His eyes widened and stared. His body swayed slightly, and he spread his fingers on the desktop to steady himself.

  He said nothing, just reached for the phone with the same stunned expression, punched 911 and handed me the receiver. Then he tightened his tie and straightened his back and opened the door to the outer office.

  Just as our emergency call was answered, I could hear the gasps of shock from the people Rip informed. One of the women began to cry.

  The crying braced me, toughened me, a response I’d learned the day I became a mother–cope first and crumble later, preferably in private. Calmly and succinctly I told the dispatcher there had been a murder at Bryn Derwyn Academy, adding that the people on the premises were being asked to stay until the police arrived.

  My second call was to our house. The kids would see and hear the police roar into the school driveway, and they needed to be warned. To my relief, Chelsea answered; being so young, Garry might have panicked just from the stress in my voice.

  "There's going to be a bit of commotion over at the school," I began.

  "What?" Chelsea interrupted.

  I took a deep, time-consuming breath. "Something happened to Mr. Wharton, and the police have to check it out."

  "Is he dead?" I could visualize my daughter's face wide with awe, flushed with the thrill of life's drama. She did not sound scared. Tell her the truth?

  "Yes, Chelsea. I'm afraid so."

  "Ohmigod."

  "Dad and I are fine. Everybody else is fine. Please just wait at the house for us. We'll tell you whatever we can when we get home. Go ahead and get something
to eat if you want."

  "Like, how did he die, Mom? Was it a heart attack or something?"

  "Probably not."

  "Then what, Mom? Mr. Wharton was old, but not that old." Fear was infusing itself into her voice. I could almost hear her thoughts: If somebody Mr. Wharton's age could die suddenly, so could anybody.

  "It was more like an accident." The expedient white lie.

  "Look," I added before Chelsea could quiz me further. "I've got to go now. Just hang in, and I'll be there as soon as I can."

  When I got home, I would obliterate the white lie with the whole truth, and probably spoil some additional innocence as well. It wouldn't be easy, and I felt certain both kids would require generous portions of reassurance for weeks to come.

  My eyes rested on the familiar cover of Bryn Derwyn's present-year directory, tucked under Rip's phone for handy reference. It reminded me that, for my husband, there would be the whole student body, their parents, the faculty, the Board, and all the alumni body to reassure.

  "Phew," I remarked to myself. "Lucky thing Richard was a bachelor."

  Was a bachelor. I began to tremble, but another glimpse at the directory shamed me out of that.

  When I emerged from the office, the three waiting teachers ambushed me for more details. Joanne saw my face and held them back like a no-nonsense crossing guard.

  I proceeded into the lobby, a robot now with only so much juice left to operate my limbs.

  When he caught sight of me, Rip stopped speaking with Jacob and just watched.

  There was an oak bench along the far wall. I went to it and began to pull. Rip recognized what I was doing and helped me close off the hallway leading to the Community Room.

  Then wordlessly, we sank onto the bench side by side. Rip covered my hand with his. I allowed myself to meet his eyes for a second, just a second for sustenance, and that did it. Next thing I knew I was sobbing into his shoulder.

  After I had finished venting, finished wiping and blowing, while all of us who had gathered in the lobby seemed stuck in that suspended-time state of waiting, it occurred to me that I had always considered Richard Wharton educated scum.

  I disliked him the day we met, and nothing he had done in the six months since had improved my opinion.

  Chapter 4

  THAT TUESDAY MORNING back in August we had been living on the Main Line less than two months, so I didn't entirely understand why I was putting on my best summer skirt outfit and high-heeled sandals at eleven AM.

  "Do I really have to go?” I asked Rip, who was around the corner fixing his tie at the bathroom sink. “I’d like to be here when the plumber looks into that leak.”

  “Jacob can talk to the plumber. And you should come to lunch because Michael D’Avanzo specifically invited you.” Rip had returned to our bedroom looking especially sexy with his hair combed wet and his cheeks glowing with fresh aftershave. Unfortunately, I would have to hold that thought till later.

  I proceeded to put in some tastefully dressy “midday” earrings, little gold shells that just showed under my acorn mop of hair. “Who is this guy anyway?”

  “Grandfather of a student. Wealthy.”

  “So we’re schmoozing?”

  Rip shrugged into his maize summer blazer. I knew the color because I had just cut the cardboard label off the sleeve. “We’re schmoozing,” he agreed. “Get used to it.”

  “Bet I was invited so you won’t be able to talk business for the whole meal.”

  “Maybe. Maybe the guy wants to show off his restaurant. Maybe he likes women. Maybe he just wants you to get out of the kitchen. I know I do.”

  Rip referred both to my dubious cooking skills and the fact that he’d been entertaining groups of three and four guests at our house for lunch three times a week beginning five days after we moved in. Most were for the admissions people of other nearby private schools and, if possible, their heads as well.

  Rip needed to familiarize his peers with Bryn Derwyn's program and who it was designed to help. That way, if his school appeared to be a better match for an applicant, the other admissions people could make an informed recommendation.

  Although the lunches were a little like applying for the same job over and over, Rip seemed energized by them. Me, I was feeling a little worn–and I didn't even have to sit in. Being pampered by an older gentleman actually sounded wonderful.

  La Firenze looked like a plantation on an immaculate rolling lawn. The foyer floor consisted of an intricate inlaid marble pattern depicting a lion and a guy with a sword and a gold shield. Chamber music whispered in our ears and so did the maitre d’. Dining was going on in all of the several rooms on the ground floor, and judging by the waiter laboring up the broad staircase with a loaded tray, more diners were accommodated upstairs.

  We were shown to an intimate little cubicle about twelve by fifteen containing one rectangular table, our host, and Richard Wharton.

  Before entering, Rip breathed deeply, preparing to conduct himself well in front of a man he knew primarily by his formidable reputation and another whose behavior he had begun to question.

  Both men rose as we approached the table. Wharton shook Rip’s hand in greeting while leering at me like a cat eyeing a captive mouse. When Michael D’Avanzo leaned forward to kiss my hand, I quickly scowled a reprimand at the school lawyer. Wharton’s smile actually widened, confirming my first impression. The guy was a jerk.

  “Welcome,” D’Avanzo told us as he swept behind me to help with my chair. He was a beautifully fit man of about sixty, immaculate white hair above a perfectly tanned square face with broad black eyebrows. He wore a flattering navy blue suit, a smooth white shirt and a plain red tie. In his breast pocket a matching silk handkerchief folded into two peaks completed the look.

  When he bent down to ease my chair in behind me, I inhaled an interesting masculine fragrance dominated by lime. It smelled so good I involuntarily turned toward it, only to meet Michael D’Avanzo’s smile. In contrast to the cockiness exhibited by the school’s attorney, D’Avanzo’s expression was warm and appreciative. Since I’d been spending much of my time elbow-deep in moving boxes, soapy water, and paint, I responded with every feminine fiber I owned. Every platonic fiber, of course. I could easily believe I was invited for every reason Rip had guessed, including the one about getting me out of the kitchen.

  “Thank you for inviting me, Mr. D’Avanzo,” I told him. Let the schmoozing begin.

  He beamed behind his clasped hands. In place of the usual wedding band was a roughly tooled gold ring enclosing a diamond three times–make that six times–the size of my engagement ring.

  “My pleasure,” he schmoozed right back. “And, please. Call me Michael. I’m not really such an old man.”

  I raised an eyebrow, thinking, “I believe it.” Michael’s grin broadened as if he had read my mind.

  Meanwhile, Richard Wharton waved to the waiter who stood by the doorway. “May I treat us to a bottle of wine?”

  “Oh, no no no,” D’Avanzo complained. “You are in my restaurant. You are my guests. But, please. Order whatever you want.”

  Wharton began a murmured conversation with the wine steward. Briefly, our host observed his original guest with a penetrating expression of cold calculation, which he replaced almost instantly with a smile.

  He turned his attention to Rip. "So I finally get to meet the well-respected Robert Ripley Barnes,” he said, as if it had taken years to arrange rather than days. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”

  “Thank you,” Rip replied. From a minuscule stiffness in his shoulders, I knew he was thinking he should have met D’Avanzo back in May when the philanthropist was first approached about helping to fund a new gym. Another waiter set a water glass in front of my husband, and he reached out to touch it.

  “Ah, I see that you are concerned, possibly annoyed about my little gesture toward your school.”

  Rip’s alarm was restrained, but clear.

  D’Avanzo patted the
table twice and looked over Rip’s shoulder. “You are quite right, of course. You should have been consulted.” He leaned forward on his elbows and met Rip’s gaze. “But I assure you my little gesture will grow on you, as they say. Your Bryn Derwyn will be better off. And yes”–here he leaned toward me and stated–“please pardon my honesty...and yes, my grandson will have an arena in which to exhibit his athletic ability...” Again, to me: “We lost our older daughter and her husband–Nicky’s parents–three years ago. Terrible car accident. Terrible. Nicky lives with me now, and I’m afraid I dote on him like the worst of parents...”

  He paused a moment before concluding with Rip: “And yes, it’s true. Building the gym will benefit our surviving daughter’s husband. God knows, married to our Tina he needs all the help he can get.”

  If any of my discomfort over being present while the men conducted business remained, this exchange erased it. Michael D’Avanzo was quite skilled at holding two or more private conversations simultaneously. Rip’s at business level, mine at the confidential personal level, and others I was certain at will, although he seemed to merely tolerate Richard Wharton.

  To the waiter, D’Avanzo nodded and said, “We begin.” Menus were passed around. Mine was without prices, as I supposed the others were.

  I settled on something involving artichoke hearts and parmesan cheese then set the menu aside, glancing toward our waiting host to indicate that we could pick up the conversation.

  “My younger daughter,” he continued smoothly, “is rather headstrong. Spoiled." He spread his hands. "My fault, I’m sure. Her mother, rest her soul, did her best to control our Tina, but I could never bring myself to punish such a treasure. Now? Now is too late and we must do the best we can.

  “Her husband, Edwin, does excellent work, but there must be work before a man can do it. You see?”

  I nodded and sipped the crisp white wine that had just been poured. Rip had waved his away, as had the restaurateur. More for Richard Wharton—and me, if I wanted it.