Shadows on the Ivy (18 page)

“In addition to this mess, now there’s another problem related to Whitcomb House,” Maggie said as she joined Paul in his office while the policemen called for a unit to dust for fingerprints in hers. “I just came from Max’s office. He’s overreacting; he wants to close Whitcomb House. This week. He told me to get the four remaining students and their children out.”

If they left, Maggie thought, then where would Aura go? In a moment she knew the answer. Aura would go home with her. That’s what Sarah would want. And Sarah could come to stay with her, too, when—if—she got out of the hospital. She had extra bedrooms. “Max thinks closing Whitcomb House will end the negative publicity.”

Paul snorted. “That’s ridiculous. He really thinks throwing four students and their kids out on the street will
solve
the problem?”

“That’s exactly what he thinks. He ordered me to tell them to be out by Friday afternoon. Although he did agree they could continue attending classes here.”

“And live where? From what you said the other night, those aren’t young people who can just move home and live with mommy and daddy and commute to college. They’re adults, and Whitcomb House is their only home.”

Maggie nodded. “For the most part. Tiffany had parents in South Jersey. I assume they’ll take Tyler, thank goodness. And Maria’s family isn’t too far away, so she might be able to move in with someone. But I don’t think the others have any place they could go on a couple of days’ notice.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Talk to Dorothy and have Dorothy talk to Oliver. They’re the only people who might be able to convince Max to change his mind. Even if he feels strongly, their donations to the college—or lack thereof—might make the difference. And Whitcomb House is a project Dorothy strongly supports.”

Paul nodded. “You’re right. But they’re not at their home right now. It’s been closed as a crime scene.”

And Oliver might have been having an affair with Tiffany, whose briefcase was locked in the file drawer of her desk. Who could have known Maggie had it? She wished she could get it now, but too many people were watching. She was the only one who knew for sure that she had it, and she couldn’t trust anyone. Certainly Dorothy or Oliver wouldn’t have come to her office and created that mess. Although Oliver could have hired someone to do it…. “Do you know where they’re staying?”

“At the Somerset Hotel. They took a room for a couple of days until all this can be sorted out. Oliver called this morning to tell me. They’re very upset, of course.”

“Of course.” Maggie picked up the phone.

The call was put through to their room’s voice mail. “Hello, Dorothy and Oliver? Maggie Summer. I need your help for the students at Whitcomb House. It’s urgent. Call me. This afternoon if you can.” Maggie realized she wouldn’t be in her office. “Call me at my home. I’ll be working there.” And making lasagna, Maggie thought. She had to do something constructive, or she would scream.

“They’re not in?” Paul asked.

Maggie shook her head. “Maybe out for lunch. Paul, last night at dinner you implied Oliver had a relationship with one or more of the women at Whitcomb House. Do you know that for sure?”

“I didn’t say that, Maggie.” He didn’t look at her directly and started sorting through piles of papers on his desk. “Oliver cares about the students there, of course, because they’re of special interest to Dorothy. I didn’t mean to imply there was anything improper about Oliver’s relationship to any of them. Oliver is a fine man. He wouldn’t do anything like that. Certainly not at Somerset College.”

Could she have misunderstood? Maggie didn’t think so. Paul was drinking last night, but she couldn’t imagine him inventing such an allegation. And it had been an allegation. She was sure. Tiffany’s housemates had seemed pretty convinced she was having an affair with someone. If not Oliver, then who?

Why wasn’t Paul telling her the whole truth? Whatever the reason, she wasn’t going to get it out of him now.

“I’m exhausted. It’s been a difficult day, and I have a heavy week ahead of me. I’m going to go home and work there this afternoon. If anything happens that I should know about, please let me know, Paul.”

“Aren’t you going to talk to the Whitcomb House students first?”

“I’m not giving up yet. I’m not giving up until I hear Dorothy Whitcomb say there’s nothing she can do. In the meantime I don’t want to give those students anything else to be worried about. They’ve had an incredibly difficult past two days.”

At home, Maggie put away the rest of the groceries, resisting the urge to slam the kitchen cabinet doors in frustration. She needed answers to too many questions. Winslow watched as she moved around the kitchen, clearly hoping her activity meant the possibility of extra treats for him. She found a small piece of leftover roast chicken in the refrigerator and he jumped to get it.

No wonder people loved animals; they were so easy to please, and they loved back so simply. She reached down and scratched between Winslow’s ears. Clearly he would have preferred more chicken. Today it appeared she couldn’t even please him.

Then she thought of her e-mail. Had Will sent her a message? She could use a hug, even if it was a cyber-hug.

At least her home office was still in order. She tried not to think of the mess she had left at the college. As the computer booted up, Maggie picked out a CD to play. Baroque music could be depended on.

Maggie smiled and clicked
REPLY
.

She clicked on
SEND
. Sweet and breezy. That was her. She frowned. Should she have told him what was really happening? But at least she wasn’t ignoring him. If she told him about Tiffany’s death, and Sarah’s poisoning, and her office being trashed, he’d worry, and there was nothing he could do, even if he were here. Although she could sure use a hug. Or three.

She thought of Paul’s hug last night. Despite everything, for a moment she had felt warm, and safe. And maybe more…

She shook off that feeling, headed for the kitchen, and started pulling out the ingredients for lasagna. She must be crazy. Feeling safe when she was with someone who was obviously hiding information that might lead the police to a killer. Why should she feel comforted just because a man hugged her? It certainly wasn’t logical. She had just begun layering sausage, sautéed mushrooms, and tomato sauce with the spinach and cheeses and noodles when the telephone rang. She wiped her hands on a nearby dishtowel and picked up the phone.

“Dorothy!” Maggie glanced at the clock. “Yes, it’s important. I could get to the Somerset Hotel in half an hour. Could you meet me in the bar?”

Dorothy was waiting for her at a small, round table in the oak-paneled hotel bar, hair immaculate as usual, dressed in an elegant pale pink pants suit. Maggie smoothed her wrinkled navy slacks and wished she’d checked to make sure there were no tomato stains on her navy-and-white sweater.

“Sherry?” Dorothy offered, gesturing at her own glass.

Maggie gave in to temptation. “Dry Sack, please. On the rocks with a twist.” Thoughts of Diet Pepsi disappeared when a bottle of Dry Sack was near. At least when the day had been as long and dreadful as this one. “Paul told me your house is now a crime scene and you’re living here temporarily.”

“Yes. I just hope they find some answers soon, so we can go home. It’s horrible to think that someone may have poisoned Sarah. Did you see her today?”

“I was at the hospital this morning. And you?” Maggie wondered if Sarah’s foster father was still there.

“I stopped in just after lunch. That’s where I was when you left your message. She’s about the same.”

“At least she’s no worse.” Maggie held her glass, swirled the liquid slightly, and savored the scent. Deeply rich and slightly sweet. A perfect sherry. She sipped. Good sherry should never be gulped.

“I still can’t believe the news about Tiffany. Two of my girls, in two days. They all seemed so young and lighthearted just Sunday night.”

At the Whitcombs’ home. “Dorothy, we have another problem.”

“Beyond Sarah and Tiffany?” Dorothy put her glass down on the small table between them and looked stricken. “Has someone else been hurt?”

“Oh, no!” Maggie realized her manner had suggested something even worse than what Max was suggesting. “But it is a major problem for the students still living in Whitcomb House.”

“Have they sealed it off as a crime scene, too?”

“No. Worse than that.” Maggie took another sip of the sherry. “I just met with Max. He’s convinced Whitcomb House and its occupants are dragging Somerset College’s reputation down. He wants to make Whitcomb House disappear. He told me to have the students moved out by Friday afternoon.”

“No!” Dorothy stamped one of her pink-shoed feet under the table. “He can’t do it! Not after all we’ve been through—and they’ve been through.”

“He gave me direct instructions to get them out. Said they could continue attending school on their tuition scholarships, but that they couldn’t room on campus.”

“That’s ridiculous. We have agreements with those students. We can’t go back on our word.” Dorothy hesitated a moment. “We need to get Oliver involved. He knows more about legalities than I do.” Maggie nodded. Dorothy walked to the bar, telephoned, then returned. “He’ll be right down. He’s upstairs, listening to CNN. Sometimes I wonder what he’d do in retirement without television news.”

“It must be very different for you, having him home all of the time.”

“So far it’s worked out. I have my projects; he has his. And we have our own regular evenings out with friends, so we’re not together all of the time. Some couples are overwhelmed by togetherness when one of them retires. We haven’t had that problem.”

“So you’ve each kept your own friends?”

“We always have. He had his friends in New York, and I have friends here. I come to your seminars at Whitcomb House some Monday evenings. There are meetings about the hospital. And Oliver has always gone to his gym—now the gym at Somerset College. Monday nights he and Paul play poker with some other corporate survivors, and Thursdays he plays squash. We both keep busy. Even without the disruption of police investigations.” Dorothy looked beyond Maggie’s shoulder. “Here he is now.”

Her husband stopped at the bar and picked up a draft of Guinness on his way to join them. “Well, now, what seems to be the problem? Max is upset about what?”

Maggie explained. “He wants the Whitcomb students out by Friday afternoon,” she finished.

“I don’t think he can throw them out. Don’t say anything yet, Maggie. I’ll check with my lawyer to be sure, but by offering them scholarships and room and board for a year, on the condition they keep up their grades, I think they have an implied contract with the college. If we throw them out of Whitcomb House and don’t offer them an alternative dormitory, we’ll be in breach of that contract.”

“Plus,” added Dorothy sweetly, “someone might call the media who are so interested in Sarah and Tiffany and tell them Somerset College is throwing four or five destitute single parents and their poor children out on the streets, just because one of their friends was murdered. I would think that publicity for Somerset College would be considerably worse than it is now.”

Oliver reached over and touched Dorothy’s hand. “My dear, what a thought! And who do you think would call the media?” Oliver and Dorothy smiled at each other in understanding. Oliver was the one who broke the connection. “Maggie, leave it up to Dorothy and me. I promise that by noon tomorrow, if not earlier, Max will be begging those students to stay…perhaps he’ll even offer them a guaranteed extra semester to help make up for all the stress they’ve endured.”

Maggie raised her glass. “I truly thank you. You’ve made my job much, much simpler.”

“Oh! There’s Susie Wylie. She said she might stop in. Do you mind if I just say hello to her for a moment?” Dorothy waved to a portly woman in blue silk who’d walked in the door, then got up and went to join her.

“A rough week, Maggie,” said Oliver, taking a deep drink of his beer. “Very rough indeed for Sarah and Tiffany, and for those of us who were close to them.”

Maggie saw her opportunity. She and Oliver were alone. “Oliver, I hope you won’t consider this interfering, but there are a lot of rumors going around.”

“I’m sure there are. With a campus full of young people? No doubt.”

“Would you mind if I asked you about a couple of them? Just so I feel more confident when I talk to the Whitcomb House students. They’re already so nervous.”

Maggie took a deep breath, checking to see that Dorothy was still with Ms. Blue Silk Dress. “I’ve heard you’ve been involved in nonacademic activities with one or more of the Whitcomb House students.”

Oliver’s smile hardened. “Is that an accusation?”

“No, it’s a question. Specifically—were you having an affair with Tiffany Douglass?”

Oliver put down his drink. “Who told you that?”

“Tiffany implied to several people that she was seeing an older, married man. She was away from Whitcomb House in the evenings fairly frequently. Often on Monday nights, when I held my seminars there.” Maggie took another sip of sherry. Would Oliver really confess to having an affair with a Somerset College student? What if Tiffany had blackmailed him? What if he had killed her? Would Maggie’s questions put her in danger, too? “Dorothy told me you play poker on Monday nights. That means you’re not home on Monday evenings.”

“Maggie, I’m hurt that you would even consider me capable of betraying my wife by involving myself with one of the Somerset students. Even such a lovely young lady as Tiffany. I don’t know what Tiffany said, or who she said it to, but if she was having an affair, it was with someone else, I assure you.”

“It was just a rumor.”

“Well, you can put that rumor back wherever you found it. And, for the record, I was not having an affair with Sarah Anderson either. Just in case anyone asks. Dorothy and I were trying to help these young people make futures for themselves. Someone chose to cut those futures short. It was not Dorothy or me.”

“Was Tiffany blackmailing you, Oliver?”

Oliver flushed red, then white, and then stood. “I think you’ve said just about enough, Maggie. You will excuse yourself and leave this hotel and you will cease and desist from asking any more insolent questions.”

Maggie stood up. “I didn’t mean to be insulting. But today my campus office was trashed. I think whoever did it is looking for pictures Tiffany Douglass may have had. Pictures she may have been using to blackmail the man she was having an affair with. If it was you, Oliver, then I thought I’d warn you that the police know about the blackmail. And if it wasn’t you, perhaps you’d have some idea of who it was.”

“I was not being blackmailed by Tiffany, nor by anyone else. I have no idea who might be. And if your office was trashed today, I’m sure it looks no worse than my home, which is being searched as a crime scene.” Oliver didn’t smile as he looked at Maggie. “I’d suggest you think very hard before you ask any more insulting questions of anyone. Especially questions that fall into the category of defamation of character.”

“Tiffany Douglass is dead, Oliver. Someone might consider that insulting, too. If you have nothing to hide, you have no reason to mind being asked questions. And that’s good, because my questions were easy. I suspect the police will be asking them in a different way.”

Oliver was right. It was time for her to go.

She needed to think. For her own peace of mind she needed to do something, anything, to help find Tiffany’s killer.