The Main Line Is Murder Read online

  We paused to order, Richard choosing a full heavy meal, Rip a pasta dish with scallops and cream. Our host limited himself to an oyster hors d’oeuvre and a salad. Catching my surprise, he filled his chest with air and winked as he ran his hand down his tie. I returned a rather giddy smile. It had been some time since anybody flattered me with such genteel flirtation.

  D'Avanzo now addressed Wharton, who sat close beside me. "Is the wine to your satisfaction?" he asked his guest. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I felt that D'Avanzo was asking as a matter of form, including the attorney in the conversation as any host would include every guest, whether or not they were in favor.

  Wharton seized the opportunity to rave about the vintage, explain why he preferred it to another, and generally show off. I plastered on my polite smile and stopped listening, observing instead every visible detail about Richard Wharton plus a few invisible ones. I already knew my husband both disliked and distrusted him.

  His age: about forty. He was deeply tanned, nothing unusual for August, but this tan suggested that the owner might not spend quite as much time in the office as my husband, for a handy example. Odd, because I always thought people who charged by the minute considered a billable minute the only one well spent. So Richard Wharton either had unusual priorities for a lawyer, or he owned a sunlamp.

  He had a nice jaw with a hint of beard; I'd have bet he kept an electric razor in his top right-hand desk drawer. His nose was perfectly straight, his eyebrows sun-bleached and full, but flat and unobtrusive, positioned just right above his dark-lashed eyes.

  The man's eyes were beautiful. The irises were a golden brown edged in deep brown, the whites whiter than his shirt, his teeth whiter than his eyes. And naturally his hair was a wavy dark taupe with coppery highlights from boating or whatever. Probably boating because his tie was covered with those colorful signal flags flapping on a navy background. He wore a plain old navy blazer and tan Salty Dog pants you usually expect to see without socks.

  There was no trace of deference toward D'Avanzo, which meant Wharton either considered himself financially equal to the restaurateur, or sufficiently prominent in his field that he didn't have to kiss anybody's...ring. I was just beginning to wonder why he bothered with Bryn Derwyn, which must have been comparable to charity work to him, when he noticed my stare and raised one of those eyebrows a fraction.

  "Ah," D'Avanzo said when the waiter delivered my plate. "Let us eat."

  Between bites Rip began to discuss locker rooms. "I studied the blueprints, and I think we could use more space for the girls, maybe eliminate that extra set of rest rooms in the vestibule."

  "Perhaps you are right, Mr. Barnes," D'Avanzo addressed Rip formally, another form of sexist flattery but respectful in its intention. "Why don't you meet with my son-in-law personally and describe any concerns you may have. The drawings are preliminary, of course."

  Rip nodded, and then engaged D'Avanzo in a discussion of the timetable for the project.

  That's when Richard Wharton put his hand on my knee. It was his left hand, so the extracurricular activity didn't affect his ability to feed himself. Neither did it appear to diminish his intense interest in what the other men were saying.

  What to do? While I chewed and pretended nothing awkward was going on, I realized that the folds of the tablecloths–there were two, a long and a short—prevented Rip and D'Avanzo from noticing anything. For all they could see, Richard Wharton's hand rested on his own knee.

  "Could I please have some more wine?" I asked, thinking the stretch would force the creep to let go long enough to let me shift my chair. Or else the intoxicant would give me some of the nerve it had obviously given Richard Wharton.

  Any other time I would have slapped the offending paw a stinging blow and verbally cut the guy off at the knees. But Wharton also happened to be the chairman of the fundraising committee and responsible for soliciting from the heavy hitters, most of whom he probably knew personally. I couldn't afford to offend him.

  That's why I lifted his hand by his shirt cuff up to eye level and said, "Pardon me, but I think you dropped this."

  Captured red-handed, so to speak, Richard Wharton chose to burst into laughter. Some of the fancy white wine he had just sipped went up his nose, too, because he did a double-take and snorted and went for his handkerchief. Rip smiled with painful good-sportsmanship. Our host chuckled his polite appreciation of my reprimand while aiming cold oyster eyes at Richard.

  Thereafter, I was always "Mrs. Barnes" to the attorney with ironic emphasis on the "Mrs."

  Unfortunately, Rip's quarrel with Richard predated mine and contained far more substance.

  And that was the thought the police interrupted when they wailed into the school driveway.

  Chapter 5

  AS IT HAPPENED, the police and attendant support staff swarmed the front entrance of the school just as Bryn Derwyn's victorious boys' basketball team began to jump and jostle out of their bus. The juxtaposition of realities made me sorry I was an adult.

  The kids wore short wool coats or ski jackets over their baggy sweat pants, sloppy socks, and white high tops. One or two wore baseball caps. The sight of the four official vehicles silenced their carefree camaraderie, although one six-footer exclaimed, "Whoa, check this out."

  "This doesn't concern you, son," a uniformed policeman responded, herding the tall boy backward toward the front door. The rest of the team sidled inside with wary over-the-shoulder glances.

  Meanwhile the JVs trickled out of the bus. Win or lose, the younger players always came home elated. Now their chameleon faces were wide with the TV-show display of drama. "Wow," was the most common response.

  An officer accompanied both teams to the locker room, possibly to control the gossip, probably to insure that nobody broke loose and contaminated the crime scene. "Disturbance," was the only explanation I heard anyone give the kids, and the youngsters didn't believe it any more than they were meant to.

  One uniformed cop canvassed the lobby taking names and addresses while another few searched the building for stragglers. The most authoritative person, a Lt. John Newkirk, nodded to Rip and me before leading his small army down the hall to view the remains. After determining that my call was indeed legitimate, he relayed a request for the coroner, set the forensics people and the photographer to work, then returned to the lobby.

  He shook Rip's hand. "You're head of the school?"

  “Yes,” with a trace of regret.

  "Any more kids around?"

  Rip eyed his watch. "Girls’ basketball won big yesterday, so the coach gave them today off. Might be a few students working individually with teachers, but four-thirty is late for a Friday. Probably this is it." He pointed his chin at the cluster of teachers and staff. The roundup had gathered two more teachers and three more students; Kevin Seitz, the business manager; the lower school administrative assistant, and a computer repairman; Patrice and the two boys who had been serving detention by helping her clean.

  The lieutenant turned to me. "You placed the call, Mrs. Barnes?" He was imposing in a bulky way, about six-two with thinning dark hair and a broad reddish mustache, black eyes, pasty cheeks that made you think of a poor diet or the British complexion; but maybe it was his London Fog overcoat that suggested the comparison. His bored, seen-everything demeanor made me want to clap my hands to get his attention, or maybe keep talking until he actually looked at me.

  "Yes, I..." I hesitated to mention that I found the body; it sounded so canned.

  Fortunately, Newkirk filled in the blank, nodded to cut me off and said, "Can we speak in private?"

  "Of course," I answered.

  "My office," Rip offered with a wave of his hand. Then he squeezed mine, lowered himself to the bench, and rested his chin on his fist. He looked miserable, and it occurred to me to wonder what I looked like myself.

  Newkirk quietly closed the door behind us and directed me into Rip's chair, a big swivel thing covered in a durable tweed. Rip had
chosen it to fit his leggy height, and in it I felt more like a little girl in the principal's office than I would have in one of the visitor's chairs.

  "Where do you want to start?" the lieutenant asked.

  Avoiding the question, my eyes skimmed over the paraphernalia of Rip's office as if I'd never seen it before: the family photographs huddled in the corner of his credenza, the tasteful wallpaper, the shelves full of favorite authors from his teaching days ready to impart wisdom as needed. What would Pat Conroy or F. Scott Fitzgerald say about the death of an attorney?

  Newkirk tapped his pen.

  "I guess I should start with when I first saw Richard Wharton in the room.”

  "Okay." He leaned forward to encourage me.

  I explained about the Mop Squad and how I planned to clean the Community Room closet looking for things to sell the night of the holiday program. I told him I went out for a minute and when I got back, Kevin Seitz and Richard were speaking to a couple I knew to be late with their tuition.

  "Their names?"

  I told him, even spelling the last name; but then I added, "You won't embarrass them, will you? I'm not certain that's what they were talking about."

  "But that was your assumption."

  "Well, yes."

  "No guarantees, Mrs. Barnes, but we'll be as tactful as possible. Go on."

  I swiveled, unable to stop fidgeting. "I thought about going home for an hour—we live just beside the school—but my coat was still in the Community Room so I decided to watch the music rehearsal." I continued to explain how I went home without a coat anyway because Rip asked me to phone Didi. "Then I spent a few minutes talking to our son, Garry, and finally came back here. When I got to the Community room, Richard Wharton was dead."

  "Did you touch anything in the room?"

  "Not that time. Not even the inside doorknob." I explained how I covered my hand with my sleeve before I left.

  "Anything look odd to you, aside from the victim and the murder weapon?"

  "No." I thought about that again. "No."

  "Why did you leave the room the first time?"

  "To get something to clean the shelves."

  "Did you pass anyone in the hall?"

  "No."

  "Who else was in the building that you remember?"

  I told him about the rehearsal and the music director quitting.

  "When you left, your husband was alone in the auditorium?"

  My pulse picked up. Was he? "No. No, we walked toward the office together. By the time I came back he was meeting with three teachers. Joanne Henry was also there taking notes or getting instructions or something. It looked as if they'd been there a while."

  Newkirk nodded noncommittally. "Know any reasons why someone might want the victim dead?"

  "First hand reasons? Provable reasons?" I asked.

  "Any reasons."

  I considered that. What I knew or thought I knew was all of a damagingly personal nature. Furthermore, the so-called information had been obtained through gossip. If the police couldn't do better than that, we were all in trouble.

  "He wasn't well liked," I remarked vaguely, wondering whether I should add, "except by some women."

  "Why not?" Newkirk asked with a raised eyebrow.

  "I guess because he didn't care who liked him and who didn't."

  "Arrogant?"

  "Self-assured."

  "Antagonistic?"

  I shrugged. "He was a lawyer. That was his job."

  Newkirk flipped his notebook closed. "Getting cold in here," he remarked.

  Outside the day's light had faded into our early winter dusk. Down on the road car headlights streaked by—the last rush hour of the week. I could sense relief in their efficient speed, or perhaps I was simply happy that Newkirk seemed to be finished with me.

  "Let's see who's still out there," he suggested.

  It was Rip, Joanne, Kevin Seitz, and only three teachers. Newkirk's assistants had weeded out the groups who vouched for each other, Patrice and the detention boys, another teacher and her two student appointments, leaving a sad collection of potential information sources hugging themselves warm and waiting to be interviewed. All the adjoining halls except the one to the Community Room were dimly illuminated by safety lights. Even the lobby was shadowed and unwelcoming.

  "Cold in here," Newkirk repeated to Rip. It seemed to be a question.

  "The thermostat automatically goes down for the weekend."

  Newkirk nodded as if it was an answer he expected, but not one he liked. "Can you turn it up?"

  Rip made a little grimace. "Wouldn't it be easier to talk to these people over at our house?"

  "Maybe. Yeah, probably." He called over a nearby officer and said, "Harv, help these people find their coats then take them over to the Barnes' house. Back over there?" Newkirk asked, indicating the proper direction with a jerk of his head.

  "I'll show them," I remarked cooperatively.

  "Coffee?" he asked with a pathetic expression that passed for "please." "This might take awhile."

  To the nearest officer he added, "Meet you there."

  Then he guided Rip toward his office with a widespread paw. "A word with you first," he informed my husband, which threw my thoughts back to the uncomfortable place where they left off.

  Chapter 6

  WITH RIP AND LT. NEWKIRK closeted in Rip's office and the witnesses and their official chaperones off collecting briefcases and coats, I sank onto a lobby chair and sent my mind back to July 9, an awful Friday that began with part of our bedroom ceiling falling onto the bed and ended with Rip learning about his problem with Richard Wharton.

  But at ten that morning when Rip phoned home, Wilson, the elderly maintenance man, had just begun to bitch. "Don’t see how I can keep up with all that extra stuff your husband wants done over the school if I’m here every day. Only so much one man can do, if you catch my meaning. Nope. Won’t be ready for September if this keeps up.”

  I had been about to point out rather emphatically that we Barneses were not responsible for the woeful condition of our house or, for that matter, the thunderstorm that had worsened the leak in the roof that caused the hunk of ceiling to fall down in the first place. Wilson was lucky I had to answer the phone.

  Rip spoke cautiously, as if he already knew my answer. "Did I tell you about tonight's dinner with the Bodourians?" They were Rip’s esteemed predecessor and his missus.

  “No you didn’t, and we can’t go.” I began to pace through chunks of plasterboard in my socks. "Chelsea's party is tonight."

  Our sensitive pre-teen had moped and groused about our relocation to a hair-graying degree through much of the spring. The birthday sleepover was our effort to turn the emotional tide.

  “That’s tonight?”

  “How could you forget? She’s talked about little else for two weeks!”

  Rip sighed heavily. “Bill Bodourian invited us three weeks ago, Gin. I’m sorry I forgot to tell you, but it’s just too late to cancel.” Because William F. Bodourian would think Robert Ripley Barnes was irresponsible, not at all the sort of person to entrust with thirty-two years of one's life's work.

  I clutched my hair, suddenly aware that Wilson was listening from the top of his ladder, aware also that Rip had forgotten pretty much anything a family member had told him since he started his new job on June 15. The man was maxxed out.

  "I think Didi’s between men," I told my beleaguered husband. "Maybe she can supervise the party."

  She could, and she did. The ceiling patch quit during the girls’ squealing and stomping and Wilson quit on Monday as a result; but my best friend did come through, and out we went.

  As the valet eased our car away from the entrance to the Bodourians’ club, I remember glancing at Rip. No admiration for the immaculate landscape, not even the slightest anticipation of a fine meal. His eyes were narrowed and his lips pressed tight.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I was just wondering," he said as he guided me
through the broad doorway.

  "Wondering what?" I asked as we were drawn down the hall toward a collection of heavily draped tables overlooking a golf course.

  "...Wondering what information could be so sensitive that Bill Bodourian needs to tell it to me here."

  "Nothing good?" I guessed.

  "Nothing good," Rip concurred.

  WE WERE SHOWN to a table against the window overlooking the putting green. Since Rip and Bodourian had met during the interviewing process, the imposing, white-haired gentleman rose and extended his hand to greet me specially. His clothes suited him and his chosen environment—a moderately wild madras sport coat and an Aren't-I-the-daring-one? yellow tie.

  His tiny wife, Claire, remained seated. Her tastefully embroidered mint-green dress was garnished with a pearl choker. Every last perky silver curl had been sprayed into obedience by someone other than her.

  Drinks were ordered, and Rip and I were given a moment with our menus.

  Claire laid a pink paw on my wrist. “Try the Tuna Dijon,” she mothered me.

  I pretended to think about it.

  “Lamb chops, medium,” I told the waitress, whose lips briefly twitched.

  The seating arrangement put Claire across from me next to the window, Rip facing her husband toward the inside of the room. The chatter of the other diners made listening to the men’s conversation slightly difficult, especially since Claire’s snapping blue eyes and personal questions commanded that I pay attention.

  “Now do you have children, dear?” she asked.

  “Yes, two. And you?”

  “Oh, my yes. Three boys and a girl. Lawrence is a law professor at Princeton, and Maggie is married to a pediatrician...”

  I blanked out what her other offspring did while I tried to catch the drift of her husband’s exchange with Rip. Something mild and ingratiating about finding the office in order.

  “Quite well organized,” Rip replied, making me realize the question had called for a compliment. Bodourian preened and dried the bottom of his water glass on the creamy linen. Long fingers. Buffed nails, perhaps?