Shadows on the Ivy (19 page)

Police cars were still parked outside the college office building when Maggie drove through the gates and around the circular drive. She knew she should go in and open her desk drawer and give Tiffany’s briefcase to the police. And then answer questions about it. But she couldn’t cope with any other issues or police or victims or possible suspects, today. She idled her van for a moment. She should go home; she still had to straighten up before Gussie and Jim arrived tomorrow night. She had a sink full of dirty dishes. And she could try to get a good night’s sleep.

Or she could go back to the hospital. Had the police convinced Sarah’s foster father to return to Princeton? If Sarah came out of the coma, would he still want to reestablish contact? Was he Aura’s father?

Or she should visit the day-care center to see Aura. No—the Whitcomb House students hadn’t planned to leave their house today; they were at home, with the children. Aura was fine.

Maggie felt her heart beating hard. Aura had people with her. Sarah was being cared for. Tiffany’s parents had no doubt come for Tyler. She hoped the joys of raising Tyler would ease their mourning for their daughter.

The Dry Sack had tasted good and relaxed her just enough that she didn’t want to go home and deal with telephone messages and dirty dishes.

She headed instead for her favorite Greek restaurant. She would treat herself to a quiet dinner. A peaceful dinner.

It was still early, and Gorka’s was almost empty.

The waitress showed Maggie to a small table near a blue-curtained window and a watercolor of the Acropolis and handed her a menu. Maggie ordered a glass of ice water and another Dry Sack. Just one more drink. She would be driving home. She started by sipping the ice water. She needed time, more than anything else.

So much had happened. So little made sense.

Maggie had not told anyone of her tentative decision to adopt, but she had signed up to attend an agency orientation meeting in early December. There was a day-care center at Somerset College; good public schools were nearby. One of her guest rooms could be for her daughter. Or son. That was a decision she hadn’t made yet. There were so many children who had no one. Was she considering adopting a child because she wanted to help a child? Yes. But she had selfish motives, too. She wanted to be a mother, to take care of someone, to teach them about the world. To hug them. She wanted to get hugs, too. To be loved.

Was she substituting her vision of a mother’s relationship with a child for her lack of a permanent relationship with a man? A therapist might ask. Or an adoption caseworker doing a home study. But the relationships between a mother and child and between a woman and a man were so different. Although no relationship was permanent. That was for sure.

The timing of her assignment advising the students at Whitcomb House had been perfect; she’d been able to see, firsthand, what it was like to be a single parent.

Maggie sipped her Dry Sack and remembered Sarah, young and enthusiastic, when she had asked Maggie to be Aura’s guardian, “in case anything should happen to me.” Maggie had agreed; neither of them had dreamed the agreement would be anything but a temporary contingency plan.

Maggie looked at the poster of the Aegean Sea on the opposite wall. The water was crayon-blue, and the clouds cottonlike. All very far away from Somerset County, New Jersey. She’d never been to Greece. It was on her “someday” list. A lot of possibilities were on that list.

She ordered the shish kebab with broiled vegetables and pilaf with pignoli and alternated sipping water and sherry.

Dorothy had made it clear that she wanted custody of Aura.

The battle wouldn’t be worth fighting.

Maggie wanted to love a child whom no one wanted; a child without a family. Aura had a mother who was still alive, a grandmother who wanted her—and possibly even a biological father.

Could the father have found out that Aura was Dorothy’s granddaughter; that his biological daughter had a wealthy relative?

No. There was no way that man at the hospital could have known.

But if he was Aura’s father, his presence could further complicate any custody case. Could the name of Aura’s father be on her birth certificate? According to the adoption books, a single mother could either name a father on the birth certificate or indicate “unknown.” Perhaps Sarah hadn’t wanted to imply she hadn’t known who Aura’s father was; perhaps she’d put someone’s name on the certificate. That would give that man parental rights—and obligations. Would Sarah have contacted a lawyer to see if those rights could be voided? It was possible. The lawyer speaking at Whitcomb House had clearly told the single parents to ensure that their children’s legal status could not be questioned.

Sarah has to live, Maggie thought. Somehow she has to survive, and she has to sort this out. Aura needs her.

Maggie’s mind swirled with the contradictions of the situation. Emotionally, she knew what she wanted. Rationally, she knew what she would have to do.

Most of all, she wanted Sarah to live.

Tiffany had died—also from poison.

But in Tiffany’s case there were possible motives.

Her older, married lover? And what about Maria’s guess that Tiffany had been planning to blackmail someone or was doing so? Blackmail was certainly a motive for murder. But, again—who? Maggie was trying to think logically. But was any murder logical?

Tiffany had been with someone until two early Tuesday morning. Dorothy said Oliver played poker Monday evenings with Paul. But last night, Monday night, Paul had dinner with me, thought Maggie. And although we finished early, he was in no condition to go and play poker.

Paul had said he and Oliver had covered for each other in the past. Could one be covering for the other now? And, if so, who was covering for whom?

Could Tiffany have been having an affair with Paul?

Paul wasn’t married. Had been, but wasn’t now. Tiffany had told her housemates that her lover was married, hadn’t she? No; the phrase was “had other commitments.” The commitments could have been to a marriage…but they could have been to something else…perhaps commitments to Somerset College? Public allegations of sexual harassment at colleges and universities had made faculty very conscious of the dangers of student-teacher relationships.

Paul was the only one she’d talked to who’d hinted he knew something and hadn’t seemed totally honest with her.

She finished dinner and resisted the idea of baklava for dessert.

She would go home, cope with the dishes, make the guest bed, and then call Paul and talk to him again about Oliver and Tiffany. He hadn’t wanted to talk at school this afternoon, but maybe from the privacy of his home he could make the pieces of this puzzle fit. She had to speak with him again.

Usually Maggie just parked in her driveway, but tonight, with the van full of prints and the sight of her trashed office fresh in her mind, she parked in her garage and locked both the van and the outside garage door. Paranoia is not necessary, she told herself as she double-checked the locks on all the doors of the house. But tonight she wasn’t comfortable being alone. She was glad Gussie and Jim would arrive tomorrow. She could use some conversation with people who were not living in or near a crime scene.

Winslow meowed and followed her as she checked the doors and windows. “I know you’re here, Winslow. I know I’m not alone. But much as I love you, I don’t think you’re much of an attack cat.” He followed her into the kitchen and demanded dinner, which she provided. Herring tonight.

While Winslow was licking every corner of his dish, Maggie made the bed in the first-floor guest room, which Gussie could negotiate in the electric wheelchair she now used because of her post-polio syndrome.

Maggie chose the soft yellow sheets she’d found on sale last spring. The bed was carved oak, and the yellow went well with the beige blankets and the tone of the wood. She covered the bed with a double crazy quilt with a square-cut New England foot that fell straight around the sides of the four-poster bed, then made sure there were fresh yellow towels in the guest bathroom, a new cake of soap and tube of toothpaste, and a box of tissues on the table next to the bed.

A hand-colored engraving of a duck and a fish by Mark Catesby hung over the bed. Catesby (1682–1749) was the first person to picture the animals and plants of what is now the eastern United States. He did his own engraving and coloring, and his
Natural History
preceded Audubon’s volumes by about a hundred years. His unique way of combining animals, insects, fish, and plants in single prints made for striking compositions.

Maggie had been lucky and gotten the Catesby at an auction where the auctioneer had not recognized its value. Catesby was not as well-known as Audubon, and his signature was an
M
and a
C
intertwined, which might be missed or misread. She had gotten this one for $1,000 and decided to keep it for herself. She thought of it as a savings account. If she decided to sell, it could be the centerpiece of her exhibit in any show, and she’d price it at $3,500. Or more. There weren’t many Catesbys in circulation.

For now, though, it was staying right where it was.

Paul had said he didn’t know what a single person would do with a house, but she had no trouble filling hers. Especially when the space meant she was able to enjoy beautiful furnishings and the company of friends.

Maggie set up a brass luggage rack and checked the clock in the bedroom to make sure the time was correct. Almost nine. She’d better call Paul before it was unreasonably late.

Her Somerset College staff directory was in her study. She dialed Paul’s home number. No answer. Should she leave a message? No. She’d already asked Paul about Oliver, and leaving a message might only make him more cautious. He’d volunteered to help her clean and straighten her office in the morning. She’d save her questions until then; that way they’d seem more casual. Less threatening.

Maggie mechanically washed the cutting board, colander, and cutlery she’d used to make the lasagna. Usually Gussie liked to eat at the local Chinese restaurant when she was here; there weren’t any good Chinese places near her home on the Cape. But in case she was tired and wanted to eat in, Maggie’d made enough lasagna for both Thursday and Friday nights. She had salad ingredients, and she made a note to stop at the bakery Thursday for some éclairs or cream puffs to have for dessert. And bagels, she added. Jim liked bagels. With cream cheese and lox.

Clearly she’d have to make another grocery run. But some cranberry muffins she’d made a couple of weeks before were in her freezer, and she had eggs and ham. If tomorrow turned out to be as crazy as today, she could wait until Thursday to get to the store.

Maggie stretched out in her most comfortable living-room chair. The effects of the sherry had worn off, and she went over the day’s events once again. Maybe she’d forgotten something that would make a difference. That would answer some of the questions. Tiffany dead. Sarah still in a coma, she assumed; she’d had no calls from Dr. Stevens.

And Maria suspecting Tiffany of blackmail.

She wished she had Tiffany’s briefcase. Maybe if she’d played with the lock…but there’d been no time at school today. Tomorrow, after the police had finished with her office, she could easily get the briefcase.

She was too restless not to do something. The number for Whitcomb House was on her speed dial. Maria was the one who answered.

“Professor Summer? Have you heard anything new about Sarah?”

“No, I haven’t. How are you all doing?”

“We’re okay. The detectives left about noon, after taking pictures and fingerprints. They did look at Tiffany’s room, but they didn’t go through the whole house again, thank goodness. Kendall went out and got some groceries for us and we just made a big pot of spaghetti and meatballs tonight. It was easy, and the kids love pasta.”

“Did Tiffany’s parents come for Tyler?”

“They got here late this afternoon. Tyler was really glad to see them. He’s too little to understand his mother’s dead. All he wanted to do was help them pack his toys and go for a visit. They took some of Tiffany’s things, but left most of her clothes and books and said any of us could have them.” Maria’s voice dropped off.

“That must have been hard.”

“Yeah. They said they’d call when final arrangements are made, but the funeral will be in South Jersey, so I don’t know if all of us will be able to go. If it’s on Saturday, I think we’ll try, though.”

“Let me know about the arrangements when you hear,” said Maggie. “I have a show to do this weekend, but maybe I could get someone to booth-sit for me…” That wouldn’t be a good idea, and she knew it. No one could answer questions and make consistent sales in someone else’s booth. And a funeral in South Jersey would mean being away for the whole day. But at least she could send flowers.

“I’ll let you know. I promise.” Maria was silent. “It’s awfully quiet here, you know? The kids are in bed, and with just the four of us here the house seems empty.”

“Maria, can you help me with one more thing? This morning you said you thought Tiffany was going to blackmail someone.”

“I thought that’s why she needed pictures.”

“You said your old boyfriend, Eric, was a photographer and Tiffany wanted his number. But you didn’t give it to her, right?”

Maria hesitated a moment. “I told you I didn’t want Tiffany contacting him, and so I didn’t give her his number. And that’s what I told the police. But Eric called this afternoon. He’d read about Tiffany in the paper and wanted to make sure Tony and I were all right. He
had
talked to Tiffany. She got his number from my address book.”

“Did he take pictures for her?”

“He said no, that he didn’t do the sort of thing she wanted. But he did loan her a camera.”

“When did he do that?”

“A couple of weeks ago. It was the kind of camera you can set to go off automatically, or activate from a distance. He said she had it for a few days, and then she returned it.”

“Did he say what she was taking pictures of?”

“That she wanted pictures of herself and a friend. A memento of their relationship. But she asked him how to muffle the sound of the shutter, and how to put the camera somewhere it wouldn’t be noticed.”

Maggie thought a moment. “Was it a digital camera? Or did he develop the film for her?”

“That’s the really weird part. He wouldn’t tell me anything about it. He just said he wasn’t into that sort of thing, and it was against the law to take pictures like that.”

“How would he know if he didn’t develop them?”

“I think he did, Professor Summer. He just wouldn’t tell me.”

“Do you think he has a copy of them?”

“He said Tiffany had everything she wanted, and he didn’t want to get involved; he didn’t have anything the police would be interested in. So if he had photos or negatives, I don’t think he has them now. He was worried I’d tell the police he was helping Tiffany.”

“But you haven’t.”

“No. When I told them about Tiffany possibly blackmailing someone, I told them I wouldn’t give her Eric’s number. I didn’t even tell them Eric’s name; I just said he was an old friend of mine. And that was the truth.” Maria paused again. “Eric’s had some problems in the past, Professor Summer. If the police knew he’d gotten involved with something like blackmail, he could end up in jail again. He’s pretty upset right now that Tiffany got herself killed. He kept saying she was a stupid bitch—sorry, Professor Summer—and that at least he had his camera back. I don’t think he has anything that would help the police.”

“Except that he knows she took some pictures. Her fingerprints might be on the camera. And maybe he saw the pictures and could describe them.”

“Maybe he could, but I don’t think he will. Eric doesn’t want to help the police in any way. He’s not exactly a supporter of the Police Benevolent Fund.”

“I understand, Maria.”

“And if he gets in any kind of trouble, that could be trouble for Tony and me, too,” added Maria. “Eric gets awfully mad sometimes. Especially when someone gets him in trouble.”

“Is that why you had a gun in your room?”

“I’m sorry, but, yes. I know how to use it, too. But I think Eric will be okay. As long as no one tells the police he had anything to do with Tiffany.”

“You know if the police don’t find those pictures, then an important piece of evidence is missing.”

“I want them to find whoever killed Tiffany.”

“Then give me a little time,” said Maggie. “I’ll do everything I can to keep Eric from getting involved.”

“Thank you. I need you to do that if it’s at all possible.”

Maggie sat with the telephone. Tiffany had taken pictures. That seemed certain now. And if she had already given the pictures to the man she was blackmailing, then there would have been no need to kill her. Unless he was afraid she would talk to someone. And tell them what? Maybe he thought she had the pictures or negatives with her when she was killed. But she didn’t. And someone knew she’d visited Maggie that afternoon and figured out the photographs might be in her office. They had to be in the briefcase.

Maggie brushed Winslow off her lap and paced. Photographs. Photographs sometimes were reminders of things you’d rather forget. She walked over to a small group of photos hung near the window seat. Michael had put them there. Several times since his death she’d thought of taking them down, but hadn’t done it. There was a picture of Michael and Maggie on their wedding day. So full of hope for their future. A picture of Michael’s parents and two sisters. And a picture of Maggie as a little girl, her long hair in braids, with her parents and her big brother, Joe. She’d been six when Joe left home, so the picture must have been taken sometime in that last year. Now her parents were dead, and Joe…Joe might be anywhere.

She’d had a postcard from him a couple of years ago, postmarked Arizona. But not a word since then, and no way to reach him. He didn’t even know Michael was dead. Although he probably wouldn’t have cared; they’d only met once, at Maggie’s parents’ funeral. Joe had always lived life in a lane separate from everyone else’s. He’d seen life from a little different perspective.

Maggie wondered where Joe was now, and whether he was all right. She hoped so. She didn’t think about him often, but when she did, it was always with the regret that she knew almost nothing about her closest living relative.

And that his leaving had changed her relationship with her parents forever. Scared that she, too, would leave, they had been controlling and insistent that she could trust no one in life but herself.

That was one lesson she’d learned all too well.

Maybe that was one reason she wanted to have a family. A family that stayed close. Although maybe her parents had wanted that, too. They just hadn’t known how to do it. Why did she think she could do any better?