Shadows on the Ivy (12 page)

The police must have gone directly to the Whitcombs’ after hearing about the nicotine.

How awful for Dorothy to know for certain that Sarah had been poisoned in her home. Everyone at that party was a potential suspect. Even the caterers, Maggie realized. And, of course, Dorothy and Oliver would be on the list.

Dorothy wouldn’t have killed Sarah; Sarah was her daughter. But the police didn’t know that, and neither did Oliver. Could the detectives have found out that Dorothy had given a child up for adoption and connected that child to Sarah?

Not likely, with sealed adoption records. But someone could have seen Oliver and Sarah together and suspected Dorothy of jealousy. Or Oliver could have been trying to cover up an affair.

Anything was possible.

Maggie took another sip of her cognac, and then another. If any day called for cognac, this was it. She looked down at the telephone in her lap and realized she hadn’t even checked her answering machine. It was probably too late now to return calls.

But in the morning she’d be focused on getting to the hospital to see Sarah as quickly as possible, before her ten o’clock class. Thank goodness she’d packed the van tonight. Tomorrow was Tuesday. She’d have to stop at the grocery and then make up a bed in one of the guest rooms for Gussie and Jim.

The house should be dusted and vacuumed; the dishes in the kitchen sink washed. No matter how tired she was, she had to do something now. She was a night person, not a morning person, she reminded herself. She was exhausted, but if she did the work, she could sleep in a little tomorrow.

She finished her cognac, considered pouring some more, reconsidered, and then went to the kitchen and washed the crystal under running water. Not matter how tired she was, crystal had to be washed by hand. She rinsed the dishes she’d left in the sink yesterday and put them in the dishwasher. Already she felt more organized. At least if the police came back, they wouldn’t find dirty dishes in the sink.

She grimaced. They had no reason to come back to her home. Not that she could think of. But they probably had a search warrant for the Whitcombs’ house. Did a house where someone was poisoned qualify as a crime scene? She wasn’t sure of the legalities. But as long as Sarah was alive, at least it wasn’t a murder scene.

As Maggie straightened her study, replacing the portfolios she hadn’t packed, and piling her unmatted prints near her paper cutter, her mind kept returning to one question: Who poisoned Sarah? Who had a motive? No matter how much she scrutinized the people who’d been at Sunday afternoon’s gathering, she couldn’t imagine anyone who had a reason to hurt Sarah.

Sarah’s housemates all had different backgrounds and interests. Dorothy said she was Sarah’s mother. She wanted custody of Aura should Sarah die. But would Dorothy kill Sarah to get custody of Aura? Improbable.

Paul had insinuated that Oliver might have a relationship with Sarah. But would he try to kill her?

Who else at the party even knew Sarah? President Hagfield had met Sarah at other receptions. Paul knew of her, but said he’d never met her. She must have classes with other professors who were there besides Maggie.

It just didn’t make sense.

I should write to Will, she suddenly thought. She felt a surge of guilt. He wrote to her every day, and she’d had dinner with Paul…and the computer was right here in the study.

Short, but she’d let him know she was still here. And caring about him.

The answering machine was in the kitchen. One more task before she gave up for the night.

“Maggie, it’s Gussie. Got your message, and Jim and I are almost packed and ready to go. We’ll drive down Wednesday, and see you in the early hours of Thursday morning, after the theater. Don’t bother having food for us; we have reservations to eat in New York before the play starts. Looking forward to seeing you!”

Good, Maggie thought. That means I don’t have to hit the grocery store until Wednesday. It would be good to see Gussie. Gussie could sometimes see solutions where Maggie saw only puzzle pieces.

There were two hang-up calls before “Professor Summer? It’s Tiffany. I forgot something. I need to see you again. Soon. I’m going to be out for a while this evening, so could I meet you at your office first thing in the morning? I’ll call tomorrow to confirm. Thanks!”

What could that be about? Had Tiffany thought of something that might help Sarah? Darn. If she’d checked her messages earlier, maybe she could have called Tiffany back tonight. But not this late. Whatever it was would have to wait until tomorrow.

“Is this Maggie Summer? I’m Martha Graves. I live down the street from you. David George, next door, said you were an antique-print dealer. I’ve been cleaning out my mother’s attic and I found a whole box of
Godey’s Lady’s Book
fashion prints. Would you be interested in buying them? Please call.”

Godey’s!
Maggie could always use more early fashion prints, especially if they were the double-size ones that had folded into the magazines. Those were getting harder and harder to find, and if those were in good condition…people hung them in bedrooms or bathrooms or hallways and liked the light touch of the elegant Victorian fashions. Especially when the scenes included children or animals or men. Or brides. Brides were the hardest to find, and the fastest to sell. They made wonderful shower or wedding or anniversary gifts. But it was too late to call Martha Graves tonight.

Maggie wrote down her number and yawned. Enough was enough. Sleep called.

Too late for the
Godey’s,
too late to call Tiffany. Too late.

For the second morning in a row Maggie’s dreams were interrupted by the persistent ringing of her bedside telephone. She tried to focus on the illuminated dial of her clock radio: 5:34.

“Professor Summer! We called 911 and the police came. But we knew you’d want to be here.”

Maggie struggled to sit up and identify the tearful voice. She’d been in bed less than five hours. “Kayla?”

“Yes, it’s Kayla. It’s awful. I can’t believe this nightmare. Maria is talking about leaving right now and dropping out of college and moving back to her parents’ house. Kendall’s trying to talk her into staying.” Maggie heard sobbing in the background. “Heather is crying, and I just don’t know how we’re going to explain it to the kids. They’re all awake and they know something awful happened.”

“Whoa, Kayla. Slow down. What did happen?” Maggie was definitely awake now. She picked up the pencil near her telephone pad, in case she needed to write down anything.

“I’m sorry. It’s just so awful…and I don’t know how it could have happened! Aura woke up early this morning. She was probably missing her mother, but I put her in her own bed last night, because she and Katie didn’t get much sleep Sunday night.”

Could something have happened to Aura? Maggie felt her heart take a leap. “What happened, Kayla? Is Aura all right?”

“She’s in shock, I guess. She was crying at first. But now she’s just sitting on the floor in the corner of the kitchen holding her teddy bear.”

“But what
happened
? You said you’d called 911. The police were there!”

“Yes. But it’s not Aura. It’s Tiffany.”

“Tiffany!”

“Aura found her on the kitchen floor. She looked awful. Professor Summer, she’s dead!” Kayla began to sob, and Maggie missed her next muffled words. “…came in late last night, I guess. We must all have been in bed. She was lying just inside the kitchen door, sort of stretched out, on her back. Kendall and I heard Aura scream, and we both got there at about the same time. We found Tiffany on the floor. Aura was sitting next to her, stroking her hair and sobbing. Tiffany looked awful. Her lips and mouth were swollen, and dark, and her blouse was stained, as though she’d thrown up. We knew right away that she was dead.”

“And you called 911?”

“Oh, yes! We kept thinking about Sarah, and that the police had just been here this morning—I mean yesterday morning—and we got really scared.”

“And the police came?”

“They came, and they wouldn’t let us use the phone right away. Not until they’d talked with us. That’s why I didn’t call until now. They just took Tiffany away. They’ve taped off part of the kitchen with that yellow crime-scene tape, like you see on TV, and one of the detectives is in the living room right now trying to talk to Heather.” Kayla paused for a moment and Maggie realized she was holding back her sobs. “But she’s kind of hysterical. I was sure you’d want to know what was happening.”

“Hang on, Kayla. I’ll be right over.”

“Thank you, Professor Summer! Heather and Maria and I…we’re scared. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but Sarah and Tiffany, both.”

“Sarah’s not dead, Kayla. This must be some sort of horrible coincidence. Try to keep calm, for the children’s sake. Tell the police whatever you can. None of you have anything to hide.” Maggie wished she believed that was true. But Tiffany had left a message last night saying she’d forgotten to tell Maggie something. Could it be a coincidence that she was dead only hours later? “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Maggie pulled on a comfortable pair of navy slacks and a navy-and-white sweater, quickly rebraided her hair, and pinned it up in a crown. “You look a lot older than thirty-eight,” she said to her pale reflection in the bathroom mirror. She added lipstick and shrugged. “But who cares this morning. At least you’re alive.” A grim thought. She pinned on one of her brass
M
pins for luck. Her horseshoe alone didn’t seem to be doing the trick.

She picked up her classroom papers and pocketbook to leave and then stopped. She must call Dorothy.

Although it was Tiffany who was dead, not Sarah, Dorothy would want to know. Better for Maggie to deliver the news than for the police to do it.

“Dorothy? It’s Maggie. There’s another situation at Whitcomb House.”

“Another situation?” Dorothy was beginning to wake up and focus.

Winslow jumped onto the bed and rubbed against Maggie’s arm. She pushed him back onto the floor. No time for cats this morning. “Kayla called me half an hour ago. Tiffany’s dead. They found her body on the floor of the kitchen early this morning and called the police. They’ve already taken her away. Probably to do an autopsy.”

“Tiffany? Autopsy? What happened, Maggie?”

“I don’t know. I’m on my way over there right now. Kayla said Tiffany looked as though she’d thrown up; her blouse and face were stained.”

“Stained with blood? Could she have had a hemorrhage of some sort? How could she have just died? She was so young!”

“I don’t know. Kayla was upset, and the children were crying. When I find out more, I’ll let you know. The police will have to figure it out.”

“How awful. Two of the girls in fluke accidents in the same week! It’s a nightmare.”

As she put down the phone, Maggie realized she had better make one more call. To Max Hagfield. If she was lucky, she’d reach him before the police did.

He answered on the first ring.

“Max? Good morning, this is Maggie Summer.”

“It’s just after six! I call that dawn, not morning! Couldn’t whatever this is wait until I’m in my office?”

“I’m sorry, but, no, Max.”

“Is it the Anderson girl? Has she died?” Max’s voice quavered. “That’s all I need. The murder of one of my best students in the Whitcomb experimental program, in the home of one of Somerset College’s trustees.”

Maggie’s temper flared. Should she apologize for Sarah’s rude behavior? If Sarah was going to be poisoned, why couldn’t she have arranged to do it somewhere other than at the Whitcombs’! Clearly, in Max’s mind, she had been inconsiderate, to say the least. “No; it’s not Sarah. So far as I know her condition is unchanged.”

Unchanged. In a coma. With a little daughter who was now doubly traumatized: her mother was ill and had seemingly left her, and the woman she had shared rooms with was dead. “It’s Tiffany Douglass. She’s dead.”

The line was silent for a long moment. “Dead?” Max’s voice was low and deliberate. “Dead? Are you sure?”

“Kayla just called me from Whitcomb House. They found Tiffany’s body in the kitchen early this morning. The police have been there, and I assume they’re looking into all possibilities, because of Sarah’s poisoning.”

“How could this be happening to Somerset College?” Max’s voice trembled. “What are we going to tell
The Star-Ledger
?”

Maggie couldn’t believe his first thought was of publicity. “Just tell the press you don’t know anything pending the result of the police investigation. That as soon as you do know something, you’ll announce it. That the Somerset College community expresses its deepest sympathy, to Tiffany Douglass’s family, and, especially, to her young son.”

“Do the police think she was murdered?”

“I don’t know, Max. But it doesn’t sound good right now. The Somerset College students are going to need you to provide as many answers as you can.”

There was silence on the end of the telephone.

“Maybe you should increase security on campus.” Why was she telling him how to do his job?

But he jumped at the suggestion. “Yes. We could do that. Increased security. I’ll talk to our people, and to the police. They should all be working together.” Max had somewhat recovered his voice and control. “We made a major mistake in letting those single parents live on campus, Maggie. A major mistake. Many of them have led unstable lives. Who knows what criminals they’re attracting to our campus? We’ve already seen the result. But bringing them here is a mistake that can be corrected.”

“Don’t do anything drastic, Max. Maybe there’s an explanation. Don’t give up on the students. They’re frightened and they need to be reassured. I’m going over to Whitcomb House now.”

“That’s good, Maggie. And, Maggie, we’ve got to keep anything else from happening. I’m counting on you, Maggie. Remember—I’m counting on you.”