Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_02 (35 page)

We turned up the sidewalk toward the lovely old house where Selwyn officed. “Makes you wonder what?”

Dan shrugged. “Well, whether these letters ever happened. Maybe it makes Franci’s family feel better to blame somebody.”

“The letters happened.”

We reached the top of the steps.

Dan opened the door for me. “Nobody’s seen them.”

“Someone has.”

I looked hard, but I didn’t see any reaction at all. He gazed at me with nothing more than polite interest. “Oh. Who’s that?”

“Another student.” I thanked him and walked into the headmaster’s office.

Selwyn stood by the door. As I came inside, he closed it. When I saw his satisfied smirk, I knew I had a fight on my hands.

Despite the abundance of elegant Chippendale chairs, everybody was standing, staring at me. I’m sure there are lepers who’ve received warmer welcomes.

Selwyn launched his attack. “Mrs. Collins, we’ve had a change in our program for the assembly.”

Brooke Forrest, her lovely face haggard, nodded emphatically.

Willis Guthrie folded his arms across his chest, trying, I suppose, for an I’m-captain-of-this-ship stance. He merely looked bovine.

Stuart Pierce rubbed his temple. If he thought he had a headache now, wait a minute.

Cheryl Kraft’s face was flushed. “I am absolutely opposed to the board’s decision, Mrs. Collins.”

Desmond lifted his hands in a gesture of resignation. “Maybe you can make them see.”

“A change?” I asked.

Selwyn’s reply was smooth. “I’ve explained to the board members the irresponsible allegations you’ve been making. As an experienced educator with a thorough grounding in psychology, I know—I
know
—we have no student in our school with the requisite emotional temperament to have planned and carried out the heinous crime that took the life of Mrs. Matthews.”

“Really?”

He ignored my sarcasm. “Indeed, I’ve explained how hurtful it could be to our program and to the future of Walden School if you are permitted to invite students to carry tales of others’ behavior to you. Why, it would suggest to our students that we favor a big-brother kind of mentality. Moreover, it clearly would suggest a link between the school and Mrs. Matthews’s murder, and that would surely frighten parents.”

Stuart Pierce’s eyes were somber and thoughtful. “Patty Kay loved this school. I don’t want us to do anything that would hurt it.”

Brooke shivered. “The whole idea’s dreadful. Children don’t shoot people.”

An almost unbelievable statement to make in this last decade of the century, a time when shootouts in school corridors and classrooms are commonplace, where violence real or imagined is an everyday companion to young lives. But this, after all, was Fair Haven, if not Eden, surely a very safe place.

“Children do kill,” I replied mildly. “But the real point here is that we’ve got to follow up every possibility. Certainly a Walden student may not be guilty. In fact, there are several other persons who had reason to murder Patty Kay. But a student may have killed her. This board has an obligation to find out the truth.”

“Not on the campus.” Selwyn shoved back that lock of hair. “It would be catastrophic to our image. Parents don’t pay seven thousand dollars a year to have their children subjected to grillings by strangers.”

“I’m not a stranger. I won’t be presented as a stranger. I’m representing the Matthews family. I assure you I’ll couch my questions carefully, taking into account the sensibilities of your students.” I didn’t bother to point out that this Rambo-inculcated generation had been drenched in television and film blood since they were toddlers. “I give you my word on that. I feel confident the board will enthusiastically approve my appearance here today.”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Collins, you’re wrong about that.” Selwyn yanked the door open. “We’ve already voted. The board members support my position. Except for Mrs. Kraft and Mr. Marino.”

“Very well. I’m sure the board members will enjoy having Captain Walsh contact students directly.” I spoke pleasantly. “It will be such an interesting experience for your students, unaccustomed as they are to contact with police conducting murder investigations. A real civics lesson. And I’m absolutely positive this board—and the parents of your students—will enjoy the newspaper headlines tomorrow.”

I turned toward the door.

“Headlines? What headlines?” Selwyn sounded like a bleating sheep.

I paused in the doorway, smiled at them all. “Why, the headlines—on radio, TV, print—that will naturally flow out
of the news conference that I will call for”—I glanced at my watch—“eleven
A.M
. All about the little girl driven to suicide by obscene letters at her school and the refusal of those in charge to find out who caused her death. An eleven o’clock conference will give plenty of time to hit the deadlines for the major media.”

Students were filing in the main doors. The occasional parent looked serious and concerned. The only sounds were the quiet shuffle of feet and the faint rumble, like a faraway avalanche, of muted voices

I led the way up the short flight of steps to the stage.

Two lines of chairs awaited us. In the back row sat the three students I’d seen on my first visit to the campus. Dan Forrest nodded gravely at his mother, politely at the rest of the trustees.

I took the seat nearest the podium. Selwyn, his face flushed and grim, sat next to me, then Brooke, Stuart, Willis, and Cheryl.

Desmond stood beside the podium. He glanced at his watch.

A bell rang.

Ten o’clock.

The students moved restively in their seats. Grave-faced parents looked at the stage. The low buzz of conversation quieted.

I looked out at the sea of fresh young faces and wondered if one hid a violent, cunning, dangerous nature. I scanned the rows.

Chloe Abbott, her face sullen and pinched, slouched beside her mother. Gina’s sharp-featured face was set in a stony mask.

A few rows farther back, Brigit Pierce whispered animatedly to the pensive girl sitting next to her.

Desmond didn’t need a microphone. No lawyer ever does. “Good morning. I’m Desmond Marino, president of the Walden School board of trustees …”

I listened with only half an ear. I was busy thinking about my own presentation.

But I wasn’t first on today’s agenda.

“… a chance today to present a special memorial to one of your classmates, Franci Hollis. To make the presentation I would like to call on Dan Forrest, president of the student council.”

Brooke’s troubled face softened as she watched her handsome son stride toward the podium.

Dan started off with a quaver but kept going, and his voice steadied. “… at three o’clock this afternoon everybody’s invited to attend the dedication of the Franci Hollis Memorial Rose Garden which will be planted between the girls’ gym and the lake. We had hoped that Franci’s brother Walt would be here today.” He cleared his throat. “Walt has decided to withdraw from school—”

Exclamations of surprise and dismay sounded among the students.

“—and I know all of us will urge him to come back.” He glanced down at the notecard tightly gripped in his hand. “Walden School will miss Franci, and all of us deeply regret her loss. Perhaps if everyone would write Walt a note —just to let him know how we feel—maybe then he will come back. I know we want him to be our class president. I see my taking the job as temporary.” He looked earnestly out at the audience. “I hope it’s just temporary. I promise I will make every effort to do the best job that I can. Thank you.”

There was a ragged burst of applause, led by Chloe. No one knew quite what was proper here.

Dan returned to his seat.

Desmond stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “As many of you are aware, Walden School also suffered the loss this past weekend of Patty Kay Matthews, a teacher and a longtime member of the Walden board of trustees. A representative of the Matthews family, Mrs. Collins, will now speak to you.”

I have no traffic with New Age concepts. Channeling, to me, is a rather sad attempt at self-importance. I see crystals as the modern equivalent of the rabbit’s foot, and good karma, bad karma as an exotic means of escaping responsibility.

But maybe strong emotions do reach across time and space. Because—just for an instant—as my audience quieted, I experienced a wave of fear—sharp, immediate, profoundly disturbing.

Someone in this auditorium was desperately, wildly, dangerously frightened.

I felt it, then it was gone.

It shook me.

Because fear can be dangerous. Fear led to the murder of Patty Kay and of little Amy at the bookstore.

I was tempted to speak out frankly, to warn that there was terrible danger present—here and now—on this lovely campus.

But I’d promised.

And if I spoke that openly, it might simply increase the pressure on the murderer, increase the danger.

I’ve spoken in a good many difficult and trying circumstances. I can assume whatever tone I must. There was no echo of distress in my voice. “I appreciate the opportunity to talk to you this morning. My request is simple. The
family hopes to learn—perhaps through Mrs. Matthews’s conversations last Friday—information that might be helpful to the authorities. I am asking all persons in this room who saw Mrs. Matthews on Friday to write down when they saw her and with whom she was speaking. Of course, if you happened personally to speak with her, that’s even better. Now, please take a sheet of paper, respond to these questions, put your name on it, sign it, then pass it to the right. Remember, it’s important for us to know every single person Mrs. Matthews saw that day.”

I worked fast in the lobby outside the auditorium. The young policewoman, Sergeant Roman, stood a few feet away, watching. I wanted to be in position to set up interviews by the time the assembly ended. Even though the doors were closed, I heard Selwyn’s smooth tenor as he urged students to talk with counselors and teachers about the untimely events of the last week. I suppose that man could make the Second Coming sound pedestrian. The smooth-tongued headmaster certainly had no trouble with a suicide and murder. And yet I hoped his message was being heard, it is so desperately important to listen when children speak. Despair and depression strike the young as well as the old.

It didn’t take me long to separate the sheets. Many I discarded at once. Others went into a pile signifying a brief, unrewarding glimpse of Patty Kay.

The gold lode contained sightings of Patty Kay in conversation.

And one report was a chart buster—written by a very smart student. I read it twice, put that student’s name at the top of the list, then swiftly added the others I wanted to see.

• • •

I felt a flicker of irritation. Surely Walden School had an extra office at its disposal. Obviously Selwyn intended to cooperate as minimally as possible. All right, I could conduct interviews in the now-shadowy and cavernous—with most of the lights dimmed—auditorium.

Actually, the auditorium had the advantage of the adjacent lobby, which provided a place for the students I had selected to wait.

My first interviewee strode purposefully down the aisle. Short, stocky, and athletic, Barbara Phillips got right to the point. “I didn’t see Mrs. Matthews at all on Friday, but I gathered you want to know about everyone who talked to her. Of course, I don’t know that it will do you any good, because Franci’s not here to tell you about it. But I know that Franci talked to Mrs. Matthews sometime Friday morning.”

It was as satisfying as watching the third lemon click into place in a slot machine.

Finally, I had proof that Patty Kay and Franci had connected on that fateful Friday.

“Yes, that’s terribly important, Barbara. I want to know all about it, whatever you can tell me.”

Barbara’s squarish, good-humored face was troubled. “I feel terrible about Franci. I mean, I guess I should have done something. But I had a physics quiz at ten and I was in a hurry. It was just a fluke I even saw her. I went by the girls’ gym after my nine o’clock class Friday. Normally, it’s empty then. The first phys ed class is at eleven. Anyway, I dashed into the locker room to get some stuff I’d left the night before. And I heard somebody sobbing in the rest room. It sounded awful. So I called out. And the stall door
opened and Franci stumbled out. She looked awful. I thought she was sick. I asked what was wrong.”

Barbara’s face puckered in a puzzled frown. “Then she didn’t make any sense. Franci said something like Mrs. Matthews said there wouldn’t be any more letters but she’d had one this morning and it told her she’d better say she’d written the letters or Walt would die. I couldn’t get it straight what letters she was talking about and how she could say she’d written letters she’d received. And I didn’t have time! And she kept crying about Walt, so I told her that was the silliest thing I’d ever heard, Walt wasn’t going to die, and she should do whatever Mrs. Matthews wanted. But Franci moaned and said she didn’t know what to do. The warning bell rang and I had to go.” Her eyes pleaded for understanding, for forgiveness. “Mr. Jeffers won’t let you in class if you’re late. I told Franci to go see Mrs. Watkins, the counselor, and I ran out of the gym. Later, during lunch, I hunted for Franci. But I couldn’t find her anywhere.” Tears filled her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

After Barbara left, I sat for a moment, thinking it through. And realized that Barbara’s shamefaced contribution was critically important:

Patty Kay not only talked to Franci, Patty Kay had confronted the student who wrote the poisonous letters.

Panicked, the letter writer had threatened Franci.

All of this happened between Patty Kay’s arrival on the campus Friday morning and nine fifty-five, when Franci sought refuge in the rest room of the girls’ gym.

I whipped through my sheets.

I discarded the contacts that appeared fleeting.

But there were three persons who’d been observed talking to Patty Kay before ten o’clock Friday that I wanted to see.

Her daughter Brigit.

Dan Forrest.

Chuck Selwyn.

I stared at the headmaster’s name. My chest felt tight. Oh, my God, of course.