Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 (34 page)

“Oh, Jesus.” Gina’s hands clenched into fists.

“And then she got real upset and made me swear I’d never, never, never tell anybody. And I
had
to promise, she was so upset.”

“Describe the notes to me, Chloe. Handwritten? Typed? Computer?”

“Square pink envelopes. The message was from cut-out letters pasted on white paper. Dumb stuff. I told Franci it was just junk and she should ignore it. Either that or tell a counselor, like Mrs. Watkins. But she wouldn’t listen to me.”

“How did she get the letters?”

Her body stiffened. “She didn’t say.”

Gina looked sharply at her daughter.

“Who do you think wrote those notes?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t have any idea.” But her eyes wouldn’t meet mine.

“Chloe, who disliked Franci?”

I didn’t miss the slight easing of tension in the girl’s shoulders. “Everybody liked Franci. She was always happy. Bubbly and cheerful and a little bit silly. Lots of times she didn’t have a clue what was going on, but nobody cared. And she was so honest. She’d come up to some guy in her class and tell him she thought he was wonderful and it was nice—like somebody liking their dog or moonbeams or roses, and the guy would grin and pat her on the shoulder and say thanks. It wasn’t like she had a crush on him or anything. I mean, she wasn’t trying to push him, get him to pay attention to her. She just thought he was great and wanted to tell him. She made people feel good because she was always saying something nice—without trying to get something for it.” She looked at me doubtfully.

“I understand. So you don’t believe someone wrote the notes because of personal dislike.”

“
Nobody
disliked Franci.” She said it firmly.

“Somebody didn’t like her.”

Chloe stared down at the shiny pink polish on her toes. “Sometimes Franci could be irritating. Like when she’d sing the same song over and over. Or giggle too much. She made Brigit nervous.”

“So she irritated Brigit?”

“Yeah. But look, we’ve been in school together since we were little kids. Everybody was used to Franci. She was part of things.”

“When did Franci stop being happy?”

Chloe slid off the chair arm, took one step back. Her eyes flicked toward her mother, then, abruptly, her young face squeezed into misery. She yanked her hands up to her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to!” Sobs racked her voice. She whirled and ran from the room.

The blood drained from Gina’s face as she stared after her daughter. “Mrs. Collins, if you don’t mind …”

I was already moving toward the front door. I’d learned all that I could here.

I had one last glimpse of Gina’s frightened eyes before the door closed.

I understood her fear.

I wished I could have followed Gina up the stairs. Because her daughter’s voice may have shaken with sobs.

But when Chloe whirled to run from the living room, her eyes were dry.

When I see a slovenly woman, makeup askew or no makeup at all, unkempt hair, raddled stockings, I know I’m seeing a creature numbed by pain.

Even the outside of the Hollis home looked disconsolate, the accumulation of several days’ newspapers, a brown plastic garbage pail lying on its side, a trail of litter across the lawn dragged there by a scavenging dog.

I pressed the bell, knowing it was still too early to call, especially at this house of mourning, but knowing, too, that I had no choice.

I rang again.

And again.

Finally, the door swung open.

Walt Hollis wore a faded T-shirt and jeans. In the photos pinned up at Gina’s shop, he’d appeared round-faced and cheerful with an easy, good-humored smile. This
drawn, white, too-old face didn’t look as though it’d ever worn a smile.

“Yes.” He stared at me dully, without interest.

He’d been at Patty Kay’s funeral and at Pamela Guthrie’s after the funeral. I couldn’t tell whether he recognized me. I didn’t think it mattered. This young man’s world was down to bedrock. So that’s where I’d start.

“Walt, I’m going to find out who wrote those notes to your sister.”

The slack muscles in his face tightened.

I’ve seen that same look before in the African veldt, on a battleground, during a boxing match, the intense, unwavering stare of a predator.

Silently, he held the door open and admitted me.

This was a house where grief had suspended living. No light. No movement. Dust.

He led the way into the living room, switching on lights. He gestured toward an easy chair.

I took it.

He stood stiffly by the mantel.

“Is your mother—”

“She doesn’t get up.” The boy’s voice was flat. “Maybe this afternoon. But she probably wouldn’t see you.”

I didn’t ask, but he answered anyway.

“My dad’s gone, left on a business trip a little while ago. I don’t blame him. If I could go somewhere, I would too. Not that it would make any difference. Maybe it would. Maybe if I could just start walking and not stop, maybe that would help.”

I could have told him it wouldn’t, but he’d find out soon enough. Some wounds close over, but they never heal. No matter what happened—whether we ever found the poison pen writer, the person who shot Patty Kay—Walt Hollis’s world would never be the same.

His eyes bore unrelentingly into mine. “Those letters— you think we can find out who did that to Franci?”

“Yes.” I told him about Patty Kay’s fingerprints on Franci’s locker.

“So that’s why Franci was so upset Friday morning. I saw her when I was on my way to French. She was crying. See, things haven’t been right for a long time. But I couldn’t get her to tell me.” Anguished eyes stared at me. “Franci always told me everything. But this year everything was wrong. She wouldn’t talk to me. It started the week after I won the election. In September.” He glanced at me. “Class president. And I kind of wondered—she’d never, ever been jealous of me. Never. But I thought maybe that was it. Because nothing was right from that time on. But I never thought that it could be something like those letters. Do you know we found a whole box of them under her bed?” His mouth quivered.

I leaned forward. “Walt, where are they?”

“Mother burned them.”

Damn. I understood why. If only we’d known in time. But if that line of investigation was closed, this one wasn’t.

“Did you talk to your sister Friday morning?”

He turned away from me, rested his head on the mantel for a moment. His shoulders shook.

I waited.

Finally, his face splotchy, his eyes glistening, the boy faced me. “No. The last couple of weeks, it seemed to be worse. I asked and asked her what was wrong and she wouldn’t say. I’d told Mom we had to do something, maybe get a counselor, but Mom was real stubborn about some things. She thought it meant admitting Franci wasn’t … wasn’t right and everybody’s always acted like she was just fine. And actually she was fine. She was always sweet and gentle and great to have around.” He shot me a sharp look.
“So she couldn’t do math or anything, there’s no law you have to! At school she was in the special classes. And that was okay. She was proud of what she did.” His fists clenched. “Maybe that’s what was worst in the letters, talking about how stupid she was and how everybody pretended to like her paintings but everybody really laughed about them, silly blobs of color. And she was always so proud of her pictures. But she stopped painting before Christmas. She wouldn’t paint anymore. She wouldn’t tell me why. Then Friday morning, it made me mad because she saw me and she ran the other way. And I had a meeting —student council—so I just went on to it. I can’t stand thinking about it, that I just walked the other way. For a stupid meeting—at a school where someone would treat Franci that way. I’m not ever going back there.” He said it harshly, and I knew he meant it.

“So you don’t know what Franci did next?”

“Not exactly. We figured it out. She cut classes for the rest of the day. She must have ridden her bike home—we found her books in her room—and she got her diary and rode her bike back out to the lake. On the last page of her diary, she wrote that she had to drown herself because then she wouldn’t have to tell anybody about the letters.” He stood stiff and straight, young and bitter. “If I ever find out who—”

“We’ll find out, Walt. And when we find out, we’ll make sure the world knows. Now, the thing is, you do know the letter writer.”

His head jerked up. His eyes blazed. “What do you mean? If I knew—”

I held up my hand. “Think about it, Walt. You
do
know the writer—because it is someone at Walden School. Now, I want you to think. Who—out of all the students—who would do something monstrous like this?”

Walt gripped the mantel and thought. I waited patiently. Finally, he gave me two names.

One name I didn’t know:

Larry Brown, a high-strung classmate of Franci’s. “He’s a wreck. His mother’s been married three times. I think one of his stepdads—well, something kind of bad happened. And Larry got upset last summer because Franci won an art contest.”

One name I did know:

Brigit Pierce. Walt stumbled over the name. “But it’s true, Brigit’s kind of mean. And she always picked on Franci.”

I posed the last question, the crudest question. “Okay, Walt. Who might have it in for you?”

The Walden School parking lot overflowed. Lots of sporty Hondas, smug Volvos, sleek Mercedes, svelte Jaguars, jaunty Range Rovers, nouveau Cadillacs. MGs have many nice qualities. One is size. I squeezed next to a fir tree in a slot too small for most cars.

I slammed the door and hurried toward the auditorium. Students, many accompanied by parents, were streaming past me. Near the auditorium I saw the slender young policewoman who’d taken down names at the bookstore. Good. Captain Walsh was taking me seriously at last.

I was halfway across the jammed parking lot when Dan Forrest loped to my side. “Mrs. Collins, Mr. Selwyn sent me to find you. He would appreciate it if you could come to his office. The trustees are gathering there before the assembly.”

Dan thoughtfully shortened his stride to walk with me.

I wondered what mischief Selwyn intended. But I would find out soon enough. Right now I intended to capitalize on this unexpected opportunity. Selwyn would be
appalled at my quizzing a student. He should have thought of that before he sent one to fetch me.

I prefaced it with a friendly smile. “I suspect there isn’t much that goes on around here that you don’t know about.”

“Oh, well, I’m pretty active. And I know a lot of people.”

We passed a group of girls. One of them called, “Hi, Dan. See you at lunch?”

He gave her a warm smile, and replied, “Sure, Lynne,” yet managed to be attentive to me.

I looked up into sapphire-blue, courteous eyes. “You’re vice president of the senior class?”

“Yes, ma’am. Actually, it looks like I’m going to be president. Walt Hollis has quit school. His sister died and I guess he doesn’t want to come back because it reminds him of her.”

His voice was casual. There was no sense that he had any understanding of Walt’s despair.

“Tell me a little about Walt. Are you friends?”

“Oh, sure. I’ve known him forever. His mom and mine play tennis together. Walt’s okay. Wants to be a doctor. So everybody treats him like he’s special.”

“Because Walt wants to be a doctor?”

“I guess.”

“Does he make good grades?”

“A four point. But so do I. I mean, what’s such a big deal if a guy beats you out by only a couple of points on tests?”

“No big deal,” I agreed. “Unless you think it is.”

Dan’s stride didn’t check. But his quick sideways glance was startled. “Well, we’re both honor society.”

“So you’re taking Walt’s place as president of the student council.”

“The vice president automatically becomes president in the event the office is vacated.” Dan’s handsome young face creased in a frown. “Of course, we’re all hoping Walt will change his mind.” He looked down at me earnestly. “Nobody can believe the stuff people are saying. About a bunch of letters. But nobody’s seen any, so it kind of makes you wonder …”