The Main Line Is Murder Page 21

  Mostly at the urging of the children, many families arrived early enough to tour the school and admire their son’s or daughter's classrooms. By six-thirty the lobby contained quite a crowd, and I was busy at my post at the school-store table. An efficient mother named Jean helped with the cash box while I filled orders and wrote receipts. Business was brisk from the moment we opened until the last minute before seven, when the show was scheduled to begin.

  I locked the cash—already hundreds of dollars—in Rip's office and slipped into the back of the sloped auditorium to watch.

  Rip used the microphone at the podium to briefly explain how Didi had been asked to take over production of the show at the last minute. "She had very little time to work with, but I'm sure you'll all enjoy the results. Let's all give Ms. Didi Martin a big thank-you in advance."

  The near-capacity audience applauded heartily.

  Completely at random, the stage filled with children wearing bright colors, but nothing remotely alike. Like friends gathered for a party, there were about fifteen elementary-aged kids, a dozen middle schoolers of both sexes, and five additional girls from the upper grades—probably the only dedicated singers.

  The cover of the photocopied program consisted of a star penciled at the upper left corner with a roughly drawn box and a broom down at the bottom. "Bryn Derwyn Holiday Concert" was printed across the box.

  Suddenly the lights dimmed almost totally. Standing on a chair in the back corner behind all the parents, Garry switched on a flashlight and held it high.

  "Twinkle, twinkle little star," sang the mishmash of voices on the stage, "how I wonder what you are...I wish I may, I wish I might, get the wish I wish tonight."

  The stage lights brightened, and a girl wearing a fedora with "Press" stuck in the band held out a toy microphone to the tallest boy. "What did you wish for?" she asked.

  "Snow day," he replied.

  "How about you?" she asked another boy.

  "I wished for a box and a broom," he told the audience.

  "And you?" the reporter inquired of the tiniest first grade girl.

  "World peace," she replied.

  From somewhere offstage I thought I recognized my daughter's voice saying "Whrrrrr" into a microphone. The chorus began to shiver and watch the ceiling. Everybody briefly sang, "Here comes Suzy Snowflake."

  Then the older boy brought a chicken-wire frame on stage with a few clumps of black tissue stuck in strategic spots and a carrot near the top. All during "Frosty the Snowman," everybody took turns stuffing white tissues into the chicken wire until the thing actually looked like a snowman.

  Off went "Frosty," and on came a large box and a broom. The first grader, a darling urchin dressed in purple, climbed into the box and began swinging the broom back and forth. "Row, row, row your boat," commenced, and the audience was invited to join in.

  Next the box was placed with the open top facing forward from the back of the stage. The largest boy positioned himself in front of it with the broom. A tape of "Skater's Waltz" began, and a rainbow of girls tip-toed to the music. Chelsea sat Indian-style at the front edge of center stage so that people in the first row could see over her. She directed the dance, which no one had had time to memorize properly, using two lollypop-shaped signals, one red, one green. Hop left, skip right, turn in circles. Half the girls went the wrong directions. The other half started late. Finally, they skipped off stage left, with the exception of two stranded skaters who exited to the right.

  As the tune continued, the boys ran out wielding hockey sticks. One of them tossed a red balloon into the fray, which they all tried to bat into the box with their sticks. However, the first time the goalie tried to save it with his broom, the balloon popped.

  Next Garry took up the lollipops and attempted to direct the boys in a choreographed sort of pandemonium. Clunk, clunk went the hockey sticks as they hit the floor almost in time with the music. Hop, hop, hop the teams went in a ragged crisscross to the opposite side of the stage. Two kids tripped, setting off a burst of laughter, which spread like chicken pox. Any appearance of a rehearsed routine dissolved. The song played itself out while kids blushed and laughed along with the audience.

  Finally, the "goalie" recovered enough to hand several performers a piece of straw from the broom, which each person proceeded to add to his or her outfit. A girl with a long French braid stuck hers sideways across the braid. A boy managed to wear his like a moustache. Others put theirs in a pocket, sticking out of their hair, across the front of their collar.

  Wearing dangling earrings, a flowered smock, hot pink tights, and aqua socks, Elaine Wrigley climbed up on a chair. Using her piece of straw for a baton, she conducted the chorus in a taped version of, "I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing," which sounded like semi-orderly hollering. The audience added its voice to the din.

  Just as Didi no doubt intended, a few adults gasped at the beginning of the "Jeremiah was a Bullfrog," edition of "Joy to the World." Since I'd heard that song during morning assembly, I slipped out to prepare the school-store table for the exiting rush.

  Behind me the auditorium door closed on a stage full of kids dancing to the rock 'n’ roll beat with three hundred parents clapping along. I felt buoyant, the best I'd felt in days.

  Wilson Flagg, the maintenance supervisor who quit last summer, stood alone in the middle of the lobby. His face was waxen, and tears poured from his eyes.

  For a split second only the incongruity of his being there struck me. Then his crazed appearance registered, and I rushed to grasp his thin arms.

  "Wilson, what is it? What's wrong?"

  He lifted his streaming eyes to take in my face.

  The applause in the auditorium peaked. Wilson muttered something about "911."

  "You called 911?" I asked to be certain I heard him right. "Why, Wilson? What happened?" I held his arms tight in my hands. I realized I was shaking him. "What happened?"

  The applause ended, followed by a quieter babble. I could hear sirens screaming in the distance.

  "I got your dog out, Missus," Wilson told my face. "But there was an awful explosion. I had to run. I had to run, but I came in here and called. Honest. I called it in. It wasn't me this time." The man fell from between my hands down to his knees. Nearby sirens wailed.

  The auditorium door was heavy and slow on its compressor, but for once it seemed like nothing to open. Rip was at the microphone, thanking the stage crew.

  "Rip!" I shouted, and he stopped mid-sentence.

  "It's our house." Three hundred heads swiveled to gape. Dozens of people leaped from their seats.

  "Tell Garry and Chelsea to wait by the school sign. Tell them," I screamed, willing my children to be safe with the force of my volume over the other now shrieking voices.

  People poured around me. Some women cried. I heard Rip's amplified voice beg everyone to remain calm, remain calm. "Exit in an orderly fashion. It's only the house next door. The school is completely safe."

  Wilson had become a sobbing heap in the middle of the lobby. Before I reached him others had already passed by, sprinting for the doors.

  Someone tossed something to me, something pliant and red. A coat. My coat. I put it on and ran out along with the others.

  The first fire engine had arrived.

  Chapter 36

  I RAN DOWN the middle of the parking lot toward our house, stopping only when I felt the heat. Great rumbling, crackling flames billowed from the living room window. More spilled out of our bedroom and still more flicked out of the roof vent on the school side of the house. Rolling smoke clouds darkened a slate-gray sky.

  Activity swirled around me, but I stood shivering, unable to cry out or even move.

  Nearby, an authoritative man wearing heavy gear and a white hard hat urgently waylaid everyone passing by, asking something they seemed unable to answer. When he stopped Sophia Mawby, she impatiently wrenched her arm free and pointed at me.

  Hurrying closer, he cupped his hand and yelled, "Is anyo
ne in the house?" His face was so deeply-lined by the flickering light, he appeared to be in agony.

  "No," I shouted back.

  "You're positive?"

  I nodded emphatically. "Not even our dog."

  The man turned and ran ponderously in his thick boots while shouting into a radio. He disappeared beyond an enormous chrome and red fire truck glowing with reflected flames.

  The huge vehicle filled the space between the two rows of parked cars at far edge of the lot. A five-inch thick hose ran from its side between the cars and down the length of the driveway to the hydrant a hundred yards below the front of our house.

  Behind me, people continued to rush from the school building. Some parents carried their children, others dragged theirs forcibly by the hand.

  More sirens screamed and died in the din of the fire as additional trucks stopped all the way down at the curb. The police allowed no through traffic, and no Bryn Derwyn cars were permitted to leave. When the parents discovered their cars were trapped by the fire hose, many argued with the police. Even at a distance their jutting jaws and clenched fists were unmistakable.

  I was immune to their anger, indifferent to their fear. I was the only stationary object in the center of a spinning world. If I could just cling my family tight enough to me, maybe I could prevent the planet from unraveling.

  At last Rip, Chelsea, and Garry came into sight. Didi followed close behind. I went to them, but they were orbits unto themselves.

  "Barney," Garry shouted at the night. "Where's Barney?" Rip tried to constrain our son, but with the added strength of fear our nine-year-old tore himself from his father's grip.

  "Barney's out," I yelled. When I caught up with my son, I implored him to go down to the school's sign and wait for Rip and me. "Please," I begged, but the boy whirled away, staggered and whirled again.

  Yet he did head down the driveway. He would be safe. That was all I cared about, all I needed to know.

  Rip and Chelsea, too.

  I caught and hugged our daughter, but she also squirmed herself free, reflecting the same stunned immobility that had been my own first reaction. Pouting, sniffling, she lowered her head and walked, hands stuffed into the pockets of a gray wool coat much too large for her. Yellow flames glistened in the tear streaks down her face and glowed in her fluffy hair.

  Didi spoke to her like a comrade—wise woman to wise child. Chelsea nodded and waved to dismiss my friend's concern. Didi watched after her a moment, then broke off to trot through the stragglers in Garry's wake.

  An amplified voice shouted orders in a surprisingly businesslike tone. "Crew number one, run a one-and-three-quarter line to protect the southern exposure." My pulse added its own urgency to the command...”southern exposure” referred to the school building.

  Rip approached me, a wildness in his eyes beneath the control. "C'mon honey. Go down to the field. Stay out of the way."

  He meant me to join the crowd that had been herded onto the practice field down in front of our house. A yellow tape had been strung across its width just below the parking lot.

  "C'mon, honey. There's nothing we can do." My husband folded me inside the arms of his down jacket.

  I nodded and wiped my tears. Smoke and the beginnings of smoldering stench stung my eyes, my nose.

  Rip held me at arm's length and searched my face for a long moment. Then he squeezed my arms and loped off to corral a student who had sneaked under the tape for a closer view of the action. Rip spoke earnestly to the boy, holding his shoulders much as he had just held mine.

  Beyond them three hundred fifty people shivered and stared. The firelight revealed the round, astonished faces of those nearest me, set in the colors of their clothes—purple and green ski jackets, camel-colored overcoats, a few women in long, dark furs. Behind them the others became milling, shifting silhouettes—moths and butterflies and their shadows.

  "Crew number two, take the deck gun around back and darken down that fire."

  I started to walk away. Just as I turned down the length of the driveway, the interior of the house crumbled inward, thundering onto the slab that was the foundation. Next, two exterior walls fell with a windy, gusty roar. Another followed. Breathing hard, almost sobbing, I hiked myself up on the rear bumper of an RV to see. Only the lone brick and plaster chimney reached skyward with the smoke. A small army of volunteer firemen hosed the roots of the flames. Helmets covered the tops of their heads and air packs covered the rest, reminding me of World War I gas masks or those androgynous warriors from the Saturday cartoons—futuristic space heroes fighting to save the Barnes family's dwelling and everything around it. Ironic. Astonishing. Hopeless.

  I hopped down and shrugged to loosen my neck. Jogging now for warmth, I circled the playing field to join the back of the crowd.

  This close to the street I could see the neighbors on the opposite sidewalk gawking around the edges of the five fire engines that consumed all of the school's curb space. For the same reasons that no cars could leave, the fire trucks were unable to park any closer.

  At the back of a white ambulance, paramedics treated a couple of bruised children shaken up during the exodus. The vehicle was nosed into the end of the drive at a zany angle, which struck me as off-balance and untidy.

  I continued past the paramedics, stepping over the thick fire hose as I crossed the drive and proceeded up onto a little knoll. The main parking lot utilized the whole left front yard of the school, and in the streetlight I noticed a few families huddled together inside their cars, peering out at the spectacle. From that distance it looked like overeager ants waiting on a flaming marshmallow.

  Feeling six sleepless days and nights weary now, exhausted deep into my soul, I leaned against the post of the lighted green-and-white Bryn Derwyn sign.

  The night was winter cool this far from the flames, with chilly breezes gusting around the onlookers like agitated, invisible spirits. My face would be chapped for days, raw and sore from my frozen tears.

  Although my kids had not come to this spot as I hoped, they were somewhere safe. That was all that mattered. Even Barney was out, for all I knew frolicking his way from yard to yard across town. He had tags. Someone would return him.

  Stuffing my right hand into my coat pocket, my cold fingers came across a piece of paper. Shopping list? Dry cleaning ticket? I drew it out intending to tear it up.

  The penciled block letters doused me in sweat:

  "OLD CHRISTMAS TREE LIGHTS ARE DANGEROUS. YOU SHOULD HAVE TURNED YOURS OFF."

  An anguished noise emanated from my throat. While I had thought a gentleman was politely hanging up my coat, an arsonist had been planting an oblique warning. What I dismissed as yet another act of kindness –tossing the coat to me as I ran for the door–had been the same man making certain his message got delivered. Simple, brazen...and thoroughly effective.

  I swallowed great frigid gulps of air—two, three, four gasps before my knees crumbled and I was on the ground clutching my stomach and writhing with horrible hysterical convulsions.

  A neighbor woman ran over shouting, "Help her. Help her. She's having a fit."

  Others encircled me as I rolled and gasped for breath.

  A man in a white uniform pinned me still. Another wrenched open my coat, tore down the sleeve of my blouse and injected me with something.

  Oblivion beckoned, and I succumbed.

  Chapter 37

  WHEN I WOKE, the edges of my eyes were painfully dry, and the base of my head felt as if it had been clubbed. Also, my back was stiff.

  I lay on a rough-woven sofa under a blue blanket. Rip sat beside me on the floor, his head in his hands, a yellow blanket across his lap.

  I was exceedingly glad to see him, yet wary. Holding myself together, if only to function as a semblance of myself, seemed tantamount just then. If my husband gave me so much as one odd glance, lifted one worried eyebrow in reference to my "fit" of last night, I thought I might truly unravel.

  "Where are we?" I aske
d.

  The rest of the sofa cushions seemed to be under Rip. He wore men's pajamas that were a size too small. Mine were too big. My muddy clothes and red coat had been folded onto a maroon brocade armchair. Judging by the outdated decor and musty-fruity smell, we were in an elderly person's living room. Seeing the couple's history so lovingly preserved in their possessions hurt more than I could ever have imagined.

  "Wilson Flagg's."

  I glanced around again in awe—long living room stretched into a dining area, lace curtains, dust motes in the slanted sun, alcove into a sideways kitchen, white porcelain sink just visible under a back window with a hanging plant. Rip could have told me we were in Oz and I'd have believed him. Bryn Derwyn's irascible former maintenance man's house I could not believe.

  "Yeah. I never realized he lived right next to the school, did you?"

  "No." Although Wilson and Rip had worked together only a month.

  I glanced through the side window across the room to my left. The playing field where the fire police shepherded the crowd was right out there past some bushes and a maple tree. Also in the visible distance was the Bryn Derwyn sign, the location of my collapse.

  "Rip, I have something to tell you," I blurted before my husband's nearness could sabotage my resolve. I looked hard into his eyes and told him I thought I was responsible for the fire.

  "Oh no, honey. That's impossible." His face was at my level, his unshaven cheek within reach of my fingertips, close enough to weaken my backbone. Better hurry and see how he took a half truth before I told him everything.

  "I might have left the Christmas tree lights on."

  I hadn't, but I might have.

  "No," Rip protested. "I will not let you think that." To my distress, his eyes filled up. "Let's not talk about that anymore. Not ever. Okay?"

  His naked vulnerability unnerved me. His pain made me physically ache. Certainly every person's emotional strength and physical endurance had limits; but so far, my husband's had been out of my view. Illness-scares with the kids, near misses on the road—my husband never flinched. Furthermore, he had just coped with a murder and the possible failure of his school without wavering. For him, the loss of our home apparently went too far.