The Main Line Is Murder Page 6

  We drank in silence to within an inch of the bottom of our cups. Then I said, "Who the hell are all these people?"

  Joanne widened her eyes and blinked. "You don't know anyone?"

  "I know you."

  "Oh dear," she observed, obviously realizing I was a stranger at my own party.

  "Well, the stork with the short sleeves is Danny Vega," she began. "Civics. And with him are..." and so it went. Fortunately we were out of earshot of them all.

  After my tutoring session was over, I went to refill Joanne's cup, neglecting my own since I still had hostess chores. While I stood at the bar, I noticed an older man downing vodkas neat. He had two cups while I watched out of the corner of my eye. He was tall, with a square jaw and sallow skin and white/blond straight hair disturbed by the breeze. The puffy flesh around his bloodshot blue eyes was further narrowed by his calculating squint. He had placed his left hand between his bottom and the coarse bark of the oak tree that sheltered the cooler. He could have chosen one of the folding chairs, but they were positioned several paces away from the liquor.

  I stuck out my hand and said, "Hi, I'm Gin."

  "Wonderful," he said, "I'll have a double." Then he croaked out a little laugh.

  "Gin Barnes?" I hinted.

  He immediately stood erect and saluted. "Aha," he told me. "Jeremy Philbin, algebra. Pleased to meetcha."

  "Is anything wrong?" I asked.

  He pawed my forearm with his narrow hand. I could still feel the indentations made by the tree bark. "All good ideas, I'm sure," he said. "On paper. Of course, it's me and you have to implement them."

  Warning him with my last name had been useless; he thought I was a new teacher. Also, he pronounced “implement” with the greatest of care. This guy was going to need a ride home.

  "Excuse me," I told him. "I have to get out the food."

  "You do that," he called after me.

  He stepped away, and I heard him ask the first group he infiltrated, "What is this six-day rotation shit?"

  "I believe it's to..." a mild young man began to reply, only to be interrupted by Philbin. "Shit. That's what it is. How the hell will we know where to be...?"

  "Read the schedule?" Pamela Washington replied only half in jest.

  "You seen your schedule?" Philbin pressed. When Pamela, who taught fifth grade and therefore didn't use the new schedule, stood mute, he turned to the others in the group. "Have you? Have you?"

  One of the men accepted Philbin's invitation to gripe. "Yeah, and it's a bear..."

  I stopped listening and proceeded to deliver Joanne's drink.

  Before I went inside I noticed that Philbin had joined yet another group and was remarking loudly, "Only thing he did right was hire that shrink, '...to answer any questions we have regarding our students,'" he quoted Rip in a singsong whine. "Hell, he should have hired thirty shrinks—one for each of us!"

  Shaken, I took a few extra minutes arranging the food on the dining room table where the starving September yellow jackets couldn't out-eat the guests. First was the tray of ham, cappicola, cooked salami, and provolone from the Bryn Mawr Deli. Then I placed long rolls from the Conshohocken Italian Bakery into a huge basket. (They offered a discount to schools.) Next I uncovered bowls of sliced onions, shredded lettuce, and sliced tomatoes, all from a farm stand way on the other side of Ludwig near Didi's Beverage Barn, where I had picked up the beer and soda. I put out a cruet of olive oil and a shaker of oregano, potato chips, and pickles. In all I'd probably driven a hundred miles to make the food appear simple, family style, warm. With Jeremy Philbin out there scorching the earth, I felt warm all right, bordering on torrid.

  Outside I began wending my way among the guests announcing that dinner was served. It was five PM. They had only been there half an hour, but it was time. All my instincts said so.

  My route more or less followed the path used by Jeremy Philbin. I could tell by the conversations.

  "...goddamn yearbook. When in the hell am I going to find time to do that? I've got four preps this year!"

  "Pardon me. Dinner is served."

  "...first thing the soccer team's going to have to do Monday is pick rocks off the field..."

  "Dinner's in the dining room. Please help yourself."

  "She's directing the chorus? Can she sing?"

  "Community service? You mean like offering rides to drunks? Stuff like that?"

  "You seen my schedule?"

  "You seen mine?"

  "Don't trip over the badminton pole, Georgie."

  "My ass aches. How do the kids sit on those chairs all day?"

  "Those miserable Phillies lost again. You believe that?"

  I put two fingers in my mouth and did my police whistle. Then I blushed daintily when every face turned to gawk.

  "Excuse me," I said in my normal voice. "Dinner is in the dining room. Please help yourselves."

  Enough people responded to my announcement to clear the bar for me. I repeated the seven-ounce pour for Joanne and myself and returned to the lawn chair at her side.

  "What a rotten apple," I remarked, certain she knew who I meant. A few clouds had moved overhead simulating an early twilight. Most everyone, except two men who were actually playing horseshoes and a group talking earnestly around the picnic table with Rip, had wandered inside to collect their dinner.

  Rip's assistant and I watched the clouds and drank. I felt curiously detached from my tense, weary body, immune from the consequences of my thoughts and statements. So I said, very thoughtfully, a la Jeremy Philbin, "Joanne Henry, kind of a marshmallowy name for somebody as competent as you, don't you think? Mind if I call you Hank?"

  Joanne choked on a sip of Chardonnay, scowled at me earnestly for three seconds, then replied, "Okay. If you want to," except it came out "ookay," and "wantoo.”

  "Never had a nickname," she added.

  We clinked plastic cups. "Mine used to be 'Tink,'" I confided, "because I liked watching my father fix things. Except kids started calling me 'Tinklebell,' and stuff like that so..."

  From my side came a gurgling sound that might have been 7-Up boiling or Joanne Henry laughing. Suddenly I felt as if I had seltzer in my nose, too. I began to giggle. Joanne riposted. I guffawed. She barked. And we were off on a tear, laughing at the sound of our own laughter until our ears rang and our eyes leaked and our stomachs were sore.

  Bunches of people were eating now, sitting around on the folding chairs and the grass. Rip's group had gone inside. Jeremy Philbin had gravitated back to the oak tree by the bar.

  Soon Rip emerged from the house carrying a plate. He looked serious but not uncomfortable, as if he had been casually talking business.

  Jeremy Philbin stood up and treated us to his stage voice, the one that reached the rafters, "Ah, the eminent Robert Ripley Barnes," he intoned. Then under his breath, but quite audibly, he muttered, "Where the hell is Bill Boudourian when you need 'im?"

  The crowd held its breath—the very air held its breath. Then Danny Vega, the stork in the cheap shirts, put down his plate and his napkin, and eying Rip all the while, moved quickly to Jeremy Philbin's side. He grabbed the totally blitzed algebra teacher by the elbow and said gently, "C’mon now, Jer. Let's get you home. I think you've had a bit too much."

  "A bit too much for one day. Yesss," Philbin agreed. Miraculously he allowed Vega to lift his elbow high, poke his head down under his armpit and come up supporting him with his shoulders. They walked this way, like newborn colts, across the expanse of grass to the parking lot in front of the school, where Vega deposited the old lush into the back seat of a faded blue Buick trimmed with rust. A pudgy woman who hadn't been far from Vega all afternoon had scooped up Danny's plate and trotted along behind the men. She set the plate down on the front seat of her friend's car through an open window. Danny nodded his thanks while we all watched. Then he slammed the driver's door shut, started his car, backed swiftly out of his slot and drove away. At the main driveway fifty feet later he signaled a left tu
rn, which was how I determined that he was more rattled by Jeremy’s behavior than he let on.

  Rip twirled a racquet through his fingers. "Badminton anyone?" he asked, and the tableau dissolved as we all breathed again.

  At some point I put out the brownies, date-nut bars, and coffee. Twilight had settled in for real by then, and Joanne asked to borrow a sweater. By seven-thirty it was her and me on the lounge chairs and Rip drinking black coffee on a folding chair at our feet.

  He patted my shoe, which I noticed was now smeared with either chocolate or mud. "I'll go get the kids," he said. He still looked composed, but his eyes seemed a little pinched.

  "Oh, I can..." I offered from pure guilt. He had just conducted his first all-day faculty meeting and endured a scathing insult from a drunken employee—he shouldn't have had to drive to the mall.

  "No," he said, pointedly staring at my cup of white wine, "I'll go."

  He was right, of course. My reflexes were impaired.

  After he left, Joanne and I resumed staring at the sky. Night was nearly total, and we saw each other as the only positive images left on an overexposed film.

  "He's not alcoholic," Joanne said as if I had asked. "He's always sober when he teaches. He just..."

  "Hates Rip?"

  Joanne, herself sobered by food and time and Philbin's inexcusable performance, glanced my way in alarm. "No. No, I'm sure that's not it."

  She sat back in her lounge chair and watched the clouds re-form. "Bill hired him ages ago. He has seniority over everybody by at least ten years. He and Bill were never really friends, but over time they developed into what they are together, and that made them allies."

  "What are they?"

  "A couple of old men who loathe change." She seemed to consider that for a moment. "Jeremy can do it though. He's survived a lot."

  "Like what?" I had to ask. At the moment it was difficult for me to sympathize with the old sot without names, dates, and places. Or maybe I wanted to gloat over his past misfortunes because he'd driven a bulldozer through my party.

  "His marriage was long and...awful. His wife had, she was, she..."

  "Just spit it out, Joanne. We're both adults."

  "She had kinky tastes. She liked stuff most women don't. Domination, things like that—okay?" "Yikes." I took a big gulp of wine for the feel of cold reality. This was much more than I expected, more than I wanted. But how did I turn off the spigot now?

  "How'd you find that out?" I blurted.

  "I've been here a long time, too. Remember? Around the time of his worst trouble, Jerry and I...he just got drunk and told me. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  "So he's finally fed up with her cheating, with whatever, and he's ready to get a divorce. So who does he decide to confide in? The only lawyer he knows—Richard Wharton. Young guy, hip. Smooth. Philbin figures he's got an in with him because of the school connection. Figures Wharton'll be discreet, maybe cut him a break on his fee. So he makes an appointment. Goes to the office at the end of the day. Stammers his way through his story. Sober, you understand. Probably the hardest thing Jerry ever did.

  "So Richard Wharton sits there, sort of on the front edge of his big desk with Jerry down in this cushy low chair squirming like a bug on a pin. But he gets through it. Confides every embarrassing detail. Evidence for the divorce, you see. Jerry figures Wharton needs to know it all.

  "And Wharton just lets him talk, spill the whole megillah. And then he just stands up, his face looking all concerned in that way that's indifferent as hell, and he crosses his arms and walks around his desk and puts his hands down on his blotter, leaning over toward Jeremy like he's really sorry to say this in that way that isn't really sorry about anything, and he says, 'Gee, Phil, that's tough. But you see, I don't handle divorces.'"

  My mouth dropped open. "That's right," Joanne told me. "That's exactly how Jeremy reacted only worse. He hates Richard Wharton, and with good reason."

  "What a jerk," I remarked, referring of course to Wharton. And then I realized Joanne had done it, swung me like a pendulum until I came upon Jeremy Philbin from the other direction.

  "Hey," I said, realizing I was contemplating sympathy for the guy. "That doesn't mean he can turn around and treat other people like that."

  "No," Joanne agreed. "But it sure explains why he tries."

  We talked a little more around the subject. I wanted to know how she knew about the meeting, how Wharton looked and sounded. When she had described it, I had been there, too.

  She shrugged. "Oh," I said, catching on. "He got drunk and told you."

  "I'm going home," she said. "School tomorrow."

  "You okay to drive?" I asked with genuine concern.

  In perfect balance she tip-toed a pretend tightrope along our brick sidewalk, the hems of her slacks waving back and forth in the now-harsh porchlight.

  "Goodnight, Hank," I called after her.

  THE DAY FOLLOWING the faculty party, Rip met with his veteran algebra teacher for an hour and a half, no phone calls thank-you, Joanne.

  It isn't widely known, but conditional to keeping his job, the volatile algebra teacher was talked into meeting weekly with the psychologist he so sarcastically praised Rip for hiring. She has managed to work wonders with Philbin's public persona.

  The man carries himself proudly now, like an elephant trained to dance for the public. I thought about all this and more while Joanne was detained talking to Lt. Newkirk.

  I thought about it; and I decided that it's best to remember—trained or not, elephants can be extremely dangerous animals.

  Chapter 10

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, December 4, the morning after Richard Wharton's murder, Rip went over to his school office about seven-thirty.

  In keeping with his open-door, I'm-here-for-you policy, our home telephone number was listed. Consequently, the instrument began ringing the moment Rip stepped out into the frosty dew and continued to give me and the kids collective headaches until I changed our message. "Mr. Barnes is taking business calls at the school today. If this is a personal call for Rip, Gin, or one of the children, please wait for the beep and we'll get back to you."

  Didi was the only person I called back.

  "My God, Gin," she yelped. "What have you gotten yourselves into over there?" Apparently she'd seen the network news.

  "No idea." Didi was from Ludwig, too, and at that point neither of us claimed to know much about behavior over here on the Main Line, although it was looking less and less different from what I'd seen anywhere else.

  "The kids freaked?"

  "Chelsea and Garry?" I hopped onto the kitchen counter, bouncing my sneakers harmlessly against the cabinets.

  "Who else?"

  "Didi, we've got a whole school full of who else. As we speak, Rip is busy dealing with their parents." Plus all the alumni, the Board, and the press, but it wasn't worthwhile to divert Didi's attention too far from the original subject. "He's hiring two extra psychologists for Monday to deal with who else."

  "I'm sure that's a wonderful idea," Didi assured me. "I'll look forward to meeting them all." The holiday program. She was revamping the whole production and she only had eight days to do it. Correction. Seven days.

  "Sorry, Didi. Not on Monday you won't."

  "I won't?"

  "All after-school activities are canceled out of respect for Richard Wharton. There'll be an open meeting and a short memorial on Monday night. You can come to that if you want."

  "Nooo, thank you."

  "Tuesday then. Stay for dinner."

  "Thanks. Be delighted. Are you going to answer my question now?"

  Question. "What question?"

  "How are Chelsea and Garry?"

  I made a fist in my bangs, a gesture my best friend couldn't see but probably sensed. Most likely she also knew my face had flushed. "Sorry, kid. I'm a little tense. Chelsea and Garry are okay. Shaken."

  "Shaken, but not stirred?" The opposite of a James Bond martini, Didi's little way with
words.

  "Early to tell."

  Satisfied, Didi's mind moved on. "Was Wharton a good guy?" she asked.

  "Sometimes."

  "He the creep who put his hand on your knee?"

  "The same." I swear there was a hum on the line from the intensity of her thoughts. After a pause she said, "Well, that's different anyway."

  "What is?"

  "Over here we mostly bump off the regular working stiffs."

  I was so slow coming up with a suitable reply that Didi said, "See ya Tuesday. Don't have eggplant," and hung up.

  I hopped down and stared at the receiver before hanging it up. True, Wharton had been an attorney, no regular worker by Ludwig standards. But in this fifteen or twenty-mile strip of comfortable homes for the comfortably off, lawyers pretty much were the regular folks.

  Yet Didi's "good riddance" implication made me think of how dogs were regarded in Ocean City, New Jersey, the family resort where we usually went for vacation. Down there people either had a dog or hated them. From the sound of it, lawyers got similar treatment on the Main Line. Of course, in Ocean City you had to clean up after your dog; with attorneys it was the other way around.

  Didi's comment also suggested that "our" victim was more judiciously chosen, as opposed to the straightforward, heat-of-the-moment violence perpetrated elsewhere. Had she forgotten that Richard Wharton had been hit with a shovel? What could be more straightforward than that?

  "You're wrong," I told Didi in absentia. "Somebody was just plain flat-out furious. Same as anywhere else." I believed that, too. Meanwhile, my mind had seized upon a nasty irony.

  I moaned and sank onto the chair by the TV. I also swore mildly, and a couple tears sprang into my eyes.

  "What is it, Mom?" Garry said with touching concern. He had padded into the living room in his pajamas and socks.