The Main Line Is Murder Read online

  Bringing our children had been a risky choice, one no other parents had elected that night. But then no other parents were quite in our situation. Since we lived on campus, Garry and Chelsea had the option to stay home and wonder what was going on virtually in front of their noses; or they could come over and hear for themselves. True, they might have to endure some heavy, worrisome information, but the evening was meant to promote rational thinking. On balance, I thought our kids could tolerate reality better than they could their imaginations.

  Also, it wouldn't hurt for them to see firsthand how their father handled a sensitive situation, something I knew Rip would accomplish with self-control and tact. Of course, the kids might have to dismiss the bad examples to learn from the good.

  A man twelve rows back rose and began without preamble. Around him people hastily settled down and faced forward. "Mr. Barnes," he said, "how can you assure us that this school is safe for our children?"

  The thin blond hair on the back of the man's head made him look vulnerable. Suddenly I realized I was looking at the backs of three hundred heads, so I eased slightly down the right wall nearer my children where my view was of profiles.

  Rip spoke into a microphone. His unbuttoned brown tweed jacket revealed a blue oxford shirt and a crooked brown tie. The hand holding a folded page of notes appeared steady.

  "There is no indication that what happened had anything to do with Bryn Derwyn Academy, John, or with any of its students. The police agree that the only reason the crime occurred here is because Richard Wharton happened to be here. It's extremely unfortunate, but there is no reason to think the school is any less safe than it ever was.

  "Nevertheless, all of us who work at Bryn Derwyn have become acutely sensitized to the safety of your children. Two teachers, rather than one, will supervise any outdoor activities. We've begun issuing visitors' passes"–he held up a large white card in a clip-on plastic envelope–"and anyone from the outside will first sign in with the receptionist before doing business inside the building. The badge must be worn until the visitor is ready to leave the premises."

  "I heard that someone who works here did it," a woman called from her seat. Murmurs of agreement erupted from around the room.

  "I'm glad you mentioned that, Carolyn. I've heard the rumors, too. But surely you realize that if there were any truth to those speculations, the police would have made an arrest and all of us would be informed by now. The news media, who are well represented here tonight, will see to that."

  "I don't hear you saying it wasn't a Bryn Derwyn employee who did it."

  "In my heart I don't believe any of our staff would do such a thing, but what I feel has no substantive bearing on the investigation. It's best if people like you and me leave the burden of proving who committed the crime to the professionals."

  "What are the police doing?"

  Rip scanned the back of the room until his eyes found Newkirk. "Lieutenant, perhaps you would be kind enough to enlighten these folks."

  Newkirk filled his lungs, rocked on his heels and blushed. Obviously, he thought of himself as an observer protected by anonymity, but that role was no longer possible. He cleared his throat, hung his thumbs on his overcoat pockets, the better to nervously flap his hands, then mumbled beneath his moustache, "We're pursuing several leads. Nothing I can discuss just now." Judging by the finality injected into his last words, he thought he had said enough.

  Yet more heads had swiveled to skewer him, not fewer. He tucked his chin like a tortoise trying to hide. Rip crooked his finger to draw the man forward.

  "Not everyone can hear you, Lieutenant. Perhaps you'd be good enough to use the microphone."

  So Newkirk plodded toward the low stage, chin down, eyebrows pinched, and hands flapping. To speak into the microphone, he simply leaned forward.

  "I said we're pursuing several leads. I can't tell you more."

  "What can you tell us about the crime itself?" someone shouted from the far side.

  "Oh yes. Alright. White male caucasian, subsequently identified as Richard J. Wharton, a local attorney with the firm of Dodsworth, Evans, Pinckney and Wharton, was dealt a fatal blow to the head in the Community Room of Bryn Derwyn Academy sometime between three and four PM last Friday, December third."

  "Was the weapon really a shovel?"

  "Yessir."

  "Is there some significance to the shovel?"

  "No significance that we're aware of."

  "What was Richard Wharton doing here?"

  "He was working with the business manager, but he and the people they were talking to left early, and their whereabouts between three and four were accounted for."

  "So you're saying it could have been anybody?"

  "Not quite anybody. We're pursuing several leads..."

  "Okay, Lieutenant." Rip clapped Newkirk on the shoulder to dismiss him. "Thank you for your help." It was difficult to guess which man was more relieved to have the policeman headed back toward his inconspicuous corner. However, a father I knew to be a bulldog of an attorney had left his seat in order to ambush him. Too bad for Newkirk.

  Rip hastily continued. "We will now hear from Mindy Cosnosky, our full-time psychologist. Mindy will explain what steps have been taken to help your children cope with this situation. Mindy?"

  Mindy was slender, just short of bony, a mere four-foot-eleven with kind hazel eyes, fluffy brown hair and a no-nonsense demeanor. She wore a knit, two-piece combination of rust and black that would have blended into a boardroom, a funeral, or one of those cocktail parties where you don't expect to have fun.

  "What we did today was a sort of emotional triage," she began with a soft, clear voice. "By teacher referral, we interviewed any students who, who didn't seem to be themselves. If a child was despondent, refused to do work, became quite obstinate or hard to reach, we tried to talk to them to gauge how affected they were by, by Richard Wharton's death. And I urge you parents if you notice this sort of behavior in your son or daughter, don't get angry—get help!"

  A mother shouted from the back, "My daughter said she was put into some sort of play group. What was that all about?"

  "When children from kindergarten through third grade seemed to warrant further observation, we organized some informal play therapy, in which they were given an opportunity to express their fears by playing with dolls. What they did with them helped us to determine if they were perhaps fantasizing about death."

  While I watched Mindy's somber professional face, I tried to envision how the fear of death would manifest itself in play. All in all, it sounded like a tough day for the therapy dolls.

  "So then what do you do?" another mother asked.

  "We try to normalize the situation, to take their fears apart and put things back into perspective."

  A father spoke without standing. "My son's in seventh grade. Surely you didn't have him playing with dolls."

  "No, we didn't. At that age they're usually embarrassed about expressing their fears, so the therapist does the pretending. It's called modeling, and it's a way to teach the students coping techniques.

  "For the oldest students, we set up some role-playing scenarios that allowed them to express themselves comfortably. All these techniques are designed to alleviate their tension and also indicate to us any children who might need further evaluation. As yet, no one appears to be seriously traumatized, but it's a little early to say that with complete certainty. That's why I'd like you as parents to keep an eye on your children. With the younger ones there may be some regression—thumb-sucking, wetting their pants. You should also watch for bed-wetting, nightmares, and something we call night terrors, which are different. With night terrors a child sits up screaming then a second later falls right back to sleep.

  "But I hasten to repeat that I haven't seen any students who appear upset enough to require private counseling. Neither have my colleagues. So far, your children appear to be reacting as we might expect them to react to a very distressing situation. If you par
ents keep your perspective, your children should return to normal very quickly."

  "How can you say that? A man was murdered...!"

  Which, I realized, was a perfect example of what Mindy meant. Scarcely a student at Bryn Derwyn had any idea who Richard Wharton was and, therefore, responded to his death only as far as their imaginations took them—unless they were reflecting their parents' paranoia. And that was probably the real agenda for the evening, to teach the parents how to behave in front of their kids. I wondered if anybody ever did a study of that success rate!

  Rip nodded to Mindy and took her place at the microphone. "It's getting late, folks, and you'll all be wanting to get home soon. For those of you with specific questions, I'll be available for a short while after the memorial service. If anyone cares to leave now, please go right ahead. For those of you who wish to remain for our brief service, we'll get started in about five minutes." He stepped back while most of the gathering dispersed, leaving perhaps thirty interested in mourning the deceased attorney, Bryn Derwyn people who knew him plus a few strangers I assumed were from his law firm but had not made the trip to Pittsburgh.

  After the interval, Rip told the remaining group, "We're conducting this service using a Quaker format. Some of Richard's family were Quaker, and for those of us who may be of another religious persuasion, I think you'll find their approach accommodates us all. The idea is, if the spirit moves you and you have something you'd like to share, a special memory perhaps, please stand up and express it. If no one is moved to speak, then we will all simply meditate in silence. When it comes time to dismiss, I'll just stand up. Okay?"

  He took a chair beside Mindy, and the silence lasted scarcely a minute.

  Quivering with nervousness, Susan Kelly, soon to be ex-wife of abusive George Kelly, stood and addressed Rip.

  "Richard Wharton...was...very nice to me. And to my son, Chris. Is that what you meant, Mr. Barnes?" Rip smiled and nodded. Susan Kelly fluttered back into her seat, and I had my first uncharitable thought. It was the same thought I had right after Richard intimidated George Kelly in the school driveway and subsequently sped away with Susan in the passenger seat of his Jaguar.

  My thought was that Susan Kelly was a very beautiful woman.

  A rear door opened and shut via its compressor. Unaware that Jeremy Philbin was stumbling down the left side of the room, one of the attorneys who had worked with Richard began a reminiscence about fishing. The story seemed to be headed toward a warm and clever punch line, but Jeremy Philbin interrupted before we got to hear it.

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah," Philbin said, leaning against the wall, hand on chest, booming with his hear-me-in-the-last-row voice. "Very heartwarming, I'm sure. But now it's my turn, thank you very much, and I'm here to tell you that Richard J. Wharton was a horse's ass. Would anyone care to know why?"

  Rip had begun moving the minute Philbin opened his mouth, arriving beside the embittered algebra teacher just in time. Before Philbin could impart any embarrassing details, Rip grabbed him by the lapel and shoved him up the aisle toward the exit. Lt. Newkirk joined Rip on Philbin's far side and together they effectively ejected the man.

  "Is Mr. Philbin drunk?" Garry asked.

  "As a skunk," Chelsea confirmed.

  An awkward minute later Rip returned to the podium, slightly breathless and disheveled. "Thank you all for coming," he said. "This concludes our evening."

  Thus ended the lesson.

  Chapter 12

  I WAITED WHILE a few people spoke briefly with Rip, parents in need of one more reassurance, maybe a polite person or two expressing sympathy over how the evening ended. For all the squeaky wheels, it was good to remember that not all concerned people were antagonistic. When the problems piled up, it just felt that way.

  "C’mon. I'll walk you and the kids home," Rip told me.

  Outside, the footsteps of the exiting parents crunched on the rock salt Jacob had spread while everyone was inside. The mist hovering over the school's lawn and the slick blackness of the driveway suggested the possibility of ice before morning.

  His back to us, Lt. Newkirk spoke with Susan Kelly on the sidewalk just outside the front door. The poor lighting under the overhang made Susan's brown overcoat appear dingy and limp, her normally beautiful face ordinary. Her breath dispersed in short bursts as she nodded to emphasize her answers to Newkirk's questions. When she finished, she waited for a response she apparently did not get.

  Finally, the investigator grunted and scowled at his shoes. Susan shook her lovely blonde head with annoyance and stalked toward her car.

  We Barneses had drawn close enough for Newkirk to accost Rip. "Hey, you leavin'?" he asked.

  Indicating Newkirk with my chin, I suggested that Rip stay and finish up. "We'll be fine. He can help you lock up."

  Rip glanced at me hard, startled by my implied precaution. But after all, he was male. Most women acquire a certain wariness at a young age, but some men never learn; and, unfortunately, some learn too late.

  "Okay," he said dubiously.

  The children had gone to bed and I was nearly ready myself before Rip stumbled up the stairs to our room. He said good night to the kids before he joined me.

  "What did Newkirk want?" I asked. Rip's face seemed all creases and sags, more worn than I'd ever seen him.

  "Nothing important," he answered evasively. It seemed he would step no further down that path, so I chose another.

  "What was Susan Kelly saying that made him so unhappy?"

  Rip dropped his shirt on the floor. "Just that her estranged husband was with her during the time of the murder."

  "Really? I thought she had a court order to keep him away."

  "She does."

  "And she alibis him for the time of the murder?" Odd, to say the least. Had George Kelly's intimidation of his wife continued despite all the steps she'd taken to escape?

  Rip simultaneously yawned and sighed. "I was really hoping he was guilty."

  "Why?"

  "Because all Newkirk's other suspects work for the school."

  "That's not good." Since the very nature of an attorney's work was adversarial, I had expected the suspect pool to be vast. Now I realized that few, if any, of Richard's possible enemies outside the school would have known how to find him at Bryn Derwyn.

  "You're not kidding," Rip agreed, "because that means there might be a school-related motive for the murder."

  Worse and worse, I thought as Rip kicked away his trousers and tumbled into bed. A minute later he was snoring.

  Me, I lay in the dark with my eyes wide open, working jagged questions around and around as if they were stones I could worry smooth just by caring.

  By morning I looked every bit as haggard as Rip. Garry even did a double-take when he saw me. But he said nothing, just snared his toast and swilled his orange juice as if everyday routine constituted the backbone of life.

  "Jeez, Mom," Chelsea remarked. "Do yourself a favor. Buy some new makeup."

  She was partly right—I needed to do something. Why had I taken on cleaning the school damn near by myself? Because for PR purposes it needed doing. The fool who always rushed in? Me. Demurely hold down the homefront while my husband fought the war? No thanks, I don't need a coronary.

  My father was happiest when he was trying to repair something. "So what can happen if you fail?" he philosophized. "Is the gadget going to get more broke? And you just might fix it, Tink. You just might fix it, and then what?"

  I took his grin to mean success, pride, confidence—wonderful things to own according to that grin. Things I wanted, if only to prove I was his daughter. Standing in my boxy, prefabricated kitchen, feeling attacked and ineffective, I saw my father lean down in my memory, saw his smile broaden to the limits as he answered his own question. "Then you have your gadget back, and even better: you learned something you didn't know." About how the gadget worked. About yourself.

  I kissed the kids, promised Chelsea I'd fix my face, and waved them off to their
bus.

  Then I leaned against the back of the door and wondered exactly what it would take to do that.

  "Start easy," Dad always advised. "Work up to hard."

  That made Susan Kelly first. If I could satisfy myself that she was telling the truth about George, I could rub that question off my list.

  To find out where she lived, I wrapped two chocolate donuts in a napkin to bribe Joanne, who, along with Rip, knew where to reach Susan in case of an emergency.

  Although it was only 7:40 AM, Lt. Newkirk strolled up beside me just as I reached the school's front door.

  "Morning," he remarked.

  "Long time no see," I replied. Both of us were too tired to put much camaraderie into the exchange. Silently we turned left together into Joanne's territory outside Rip's office, me first, Newkirk right behind, although the detective passed me in the open on his way toward Rip.

  Joanne was away from her desk, so I gravitated toward my husband's open doorway, wondering what was on Newkirk's mind this time.

  "Guess you ought to know," the detective told Rip. "Your algebra teacher, that Philbin fellow from last night..."

  "Yes," Rip replied warily.

  "Gave the cop drove him home something of an earful."

  "Yes."

  "About you and Richard Wharton. Have to check it out, of course." The detective glanced around behind me, for discretion's sake.

  "What did he say, Lieutenant?"

  Newkirk scratched his ear and scowled."Well now that's the shame of it," he told Rip. "He heard this argument between you and the Wharton fellow. Back in September?"

  Rip reddened slightly, turned and parked himself in his swivel chair.

  "Ring a bit of a bell, does it? Know the conversation I mean?"

  Rip leaned toward the policeman and took a deep breath. "Richard and I had a disagreement about that time. What I don't understand is how Jeremy learned about it."

  Newkirk hitched a visitor's chair up under his rump. "Oh, that one's easy. Says he heard it himself—every word."