Shadows on the Ivy (4 page)

Maggie made a mental list as she drove the few miles home from Whitcomb House. Call Dr. Stevens. Check answering machine. Check e-mail. She shivered in the cold, dry November air. Something warm to eat. She should have taken more advantage of the food at the Whitcombs’ party. Or—maybe not. She might’ve ended up like Sarah.

She had two classes to teach tomorrow. “American History to 1865” wouldn’t be a problem; she’d summarize economic factors leading up to the Civil War. She was giving an exam Friday, and her students would appreciate the review. But she needed to pull out some Currier and Ives prints to illustrate contradictory views of the frontier for her “Myths in American Culture” class. She should have done that before the party, but instead she’d started matting a new series of Curtis botanicals.

Some of the prints she wanted to use were in her Shadows portfolios; others were reproduced in her reference books. She’d have to find them all tonight.

What she really wanted to do was collapse into bed.

Winslow met her at the back door, mewing and rubbing against her legs. His full name was Winslow Homer, because he was black-and-white and had the same bored expression as the cat in Homer’s wood engraving
The Dinner Horn.
About a month ago he’d appeared on the ramp leading up to her study and print room, and when she opened the door, he’d slipped in and established himself. She’d posted “Cat Found” ads in the local supermarket and on lampposts, but no one had claimed Winslow. In the meantime he’d clearly made himself at home. In fact, he now refused to leave the house. Maybe the outside world had been cruel to him.

There was no sign of any previous trauma now, though, as, having had his usual neck scratch, he stood by his food dish and loudly let it be known that dinner was late.

“Relax, Winslow. You’re not starving. And your feet haven’t been killing you for hours.” Maggie kicked off her red heels, pulled off her panty hose, and liberated her sore toes. “Just one more minute.” She got out the can opener, and Winslow riveted his attention on the liver-flavored cat food in his dish as she rinsed and filled his water bowl.

She’d promised to call Dr. Stevens, but she hadn’t found out anything that would help him. Maybe if she waited a few more minutes before she called he’d have more news about Sarah’s condition. Good news. Winslow was eating; now it was her turn.

Usually the kitchen of her 1920s colonial-style home seemed warm and welcoming. She’d hung brass saucepans on one pale yellow wall, arranging them as carefully as she did her antique prints. The warmth of their burnished color reflected light from the small, modern chandelier that hung over the nineteenth-century pine table and usually cheered her even if there were dirty dishes in the sink. Tonight she was too tired and distracted to notice. Even the carefully framed trio of Cassell’s lithographed roosters, considered among the finest poultry prints ever made, were not enough to distract her.

She poured low-fat milk into a small pan. Cocoa was what she needed. Maybe the chocolate and caffeine combination would help her to focus on what she had to do. Unless, of course, the calcium made her even sleepier. Maggie wished for a moment she were a child again. A child who could drink cocoa just because it tasted good and made you feel warm and cozy. Analyzing the ingredients of everything you ate didn’t make you feel cozy.

As she waited for the milk to heat, she pushed the blinking red button on her answering machine.

“Maggie? This is Gussie. Would it be imposing too much if Jim and I arrived late Wednesday night instead of Thursday? We got inspired by the Arts section of the Sunday
Times
today. We called a couple of theaters and got a wheelchair seat and companion ticket to a Broadway show for Wednesday night. If that won’t work for you, though, we can get a room in New York. Call when you can! See you soon.”

She and Gussie were both doing the antiques show in Morristown this weekend. Usually Gussie’s nephew, Ben, went with her to antiques shows to help out, but this time her friend Jim was keeping her company and acting as personal porter. One of Jim’s old college friends lived in New Jersey, and he and Gussie planned to have dinner with the friend’s family Saturday night. Morristown was less than an hour’s drive from Maggie’s home in Park Glen, so they could all commute from her home to the show during the weekend and save the expense of a motel room. When there were shows to do on Cape Cod, Maggie stayed with Gussie. It all evened out and gave them more time for chatting.

“Maggie, this is Dorothy Whitcomb. Please don’t forget to call if you hear anything about Sarah. Oliver and I are so concerned. Call anytime. Thanks.”

“Is this the print lady from Shadows antiques? I’m Lucy Standish. Four years ago I bought three prints of dalmatians from you. I saw your name on a list of dealers doing the Morristown show this weekend. If you have any more dalmatian prints, would you bring them with you to the show? I need a fourth to even out my arrangement. Thank you!”

Maggie arranged tomato sauce, cheese, and mushrooms on browned English muffin halves, put them back in the toaster oven, and dialed Gussie’s number. Gussie was a night person; she wouldn’t be asleep yet. In fact, she must be on her phone; the call went straight to her answering machine.

Just as well. A message would save time. She and Gussie could rarely keep their calls to each other under twenty minutes. “Hi, friend! Wednesday night would be fine. Can’t guarantee how awake I’ll be, but I’ll be here. I’ll expect you around one
A.M.
—it’ll take you about ninety minutes to get from Times Square to Park Glen. Just go through the Lincoln Tunnel, take the New Jersey Turnpike south, and then Route 78 west. You’ve been here before! As usual, you’re more organized than I am. I haven’t even packed my van for the show yet. See you and Jim in three days!”

The dalmatian customer she wouldn’t worry about; if she had any prints of dogs, they were already matted, and she always took her portfolio of dogs to shows. Customers who didn’t normally collect prints would come into her booth to see if one of her engravings or lithographs “looks like our Bowser.” At least once during every show she had to explain that breeds had changed in the last hundred years; a German shepherd pictured in 1890 might not look precisely like one today.

It was time. She dialed the hospital and had Dr. Stevens paged. “I checked, and Sarah Anderson’s housemates didn’t know of any allergies she had. She doesn’t smoke, is a light drinker, and wasn’t depressed or taking any medications. They all ate the same homemade soup for lunch and the rest of them are fine. How’s Sarah doing?”

“Her condition seems to be stabilizing, but hasn’t improved. There’s nothing to do but wait this out and watch her closely. No one else who was at the Whitcombs’ party has come in, so she seems to be the only one affected. It probably isn’t food poisoning.”

“Can she have visitors tomorrow?”

“She’ll still be in intensive care, or at least skilled nursing. You or Mrs. Whitcomb could stop in briefly. No one else.”

“Have the lab reports on her stomach contents come back?”

“I should have preliminary reports within the next hour. I’m hoping they’ll help us identify her problem.”

“If there are any changes, please call me,” Maggie said. “Her little girl needs her.”

“Do you know where the child’s father is? He should be notified.”

“I don’t know who he is. But perhaps someone else does. I’ll see if I can find out.”

“Good. And you’re sure she has no family other than her daughter?”

“I’m sure. Would you call me when you get the lab results?”

“As soon as I can.”

Maggie left the dishes in the sink and headed for her computer. It was down the hall, in the room the previous owners of this house had called their family room. Maggie used it as a combination library, office, and workroom, where she not only prepared for classes, but also stored her business inventory and matted prints. Bookcases filled with books on art and antiques and American history lined the wall opposite the fireplace, and a wide door at the far end of the room opened onto the ramp she’d installed so she could put her portfolios and cartons on a dolly and roll them down to her van in the driveway.

Had Will e-mailed her? Sometimes he made time when he got into a motel late at night. She clicked on
RECEIVE
. An ad for an herb guaranteed to enlarge her penis. Delete. A credit card offer. Delete. A sale at a women’s clothing company. Two years ago she’d ordered a red sweater from them. It had never fit. Delete. A note from a student explaining he’d miss Monday’s class because his grandfather was ill. Maggie printed it out to put in the student’s file.

No note from Will. He was an early riser; she’d no doubt find a message from him in the morning. She hesitated. Should she write to him now? What would she say? A student had become ill; she’d gone with the student to the hospital. It was late; she was tired. She wished he were here. She could use a hug.

Maybe he’d think she was too needy.

Maybe tonight she was.

Maggie turned off the computer and found her Currier & Ives portfolio and books and notes for tomorrow’s classes. She had to make up the first-floor guest room for Gussie and Jim. Get some groceries in the house. Maybe pasta with a sauce for Thursday night? Maggie stifled a yawn. She’d figure that out tomorrow.

Last spring she’d redecorated her bedroom, hoping to erase memories of her marriage and make the room her own. Michael’s taste had run to grays and browns. She’d painted over the dark colors, papered the walls with a small, light yellow floral print, and hung a series of gold-framed, hand-colored red and yellow Curtis flowers from the 1840s. She’d thrown out Michael’s worn leather recliner, which was always covered with dirty socks and underwear, and replaced it with a burgundy reading chair whose color picked up the red of the botanicals. The queen-size brass bed was new, as were the new padded mattress and the soft, hand-loomed wool blanket on the nineteenth-century, pine captain’s chest at the foot of the bed.

Tonight the bed looked too inviting to ignore. She’d shower and soak her foot in the morning. It was better already, freed from those torturous shoes. She undressed, smeared some antibiotic ointment on the blister, and nestled under the down comforter. Seconds later Winslow established himself in his usual place on the foot of the bed.

The telephone rang just as she fell asleep.

Three rings later she reconnected to the waking world and picked up the receiver. “Professor Summer? It’s Dr. Stevens. I just got the preliminary results of the lab report. I’ve had to call the police. Your young friend Sarah Anderson swallowed some sort of poison.”

“Poison!” Maggie was wide-awake. “What? When?”

“We won’t know until the full toxicology screen comes back. If we’re lucky, that will be in about twenty-four hours, but it could take longer. In the meantime there’s no way of knowing what she took, or whether she took something voluntarily or someone else gave it to her. Which is why we’ve referred the situation to the police.”

“But—police?” Maggie quickly thought through what she knew of Sarah’s day. At Whitcomb House, and then at the party. “No one would have any reason to hurt Sarah!”

“That will be up to the police to determine.”

Maggie’s heart was racing. How could Sarah have been poisoned? Who even knew Sarah, other than the Whitcomb House residents and a few other students and professors at Somerset College? “How is she now?”

“She’s holding her own. No changes. I’ll keep you informed.” The phone clicked.

Maggie pulled the comforter up and hugged her pillow. Poisoned! Should she call Dorothy? She’d wanted to be kept informed. But it was after midnight. Why wake someone else up at this time of the night? She’d call Dorothy tomorrow.

Maggie rolled over and wished Will were there. And prayed Sarah Anderson would still be alive in the morning.

The alarm clock went off at the same moment that the telephone rang. Maggie, deep in a dream about swimming through strong currents off the Maine coast, thought at first that she was hearing a foghorn. No, a fire alarm. Could there be a fire in the water? It took another ring for her groggy mind to shake off the fog and a few more seconds for her to turn off the alarm and lift the telephone receiver.

“Have you heard anything? How is Sarah?” It was Dorothy Whitcomb.

She turned her head to see the clock. Six
A.M.
Monday morning. Sarah Anderson was in the hospital.

Maggie sat up, trying to bring the day into focus. Despite her exhaustion she’d managed to braid her long brown hair the night before, as she always did before going to bed, to keep it from tangling. She brushed a few straggling hairs off her face.

“Maggie, are you there?”

“I’m here, Dorothy.”

“Have you heard from Dr. Stevens?”

She was supposed to have called Dorothy if she’d heard anything. Shit. There was no way around this. “He called very late last night. There was no change in her condition, so I didn’t want to bother you.”

“They still have no idea what caused the coma?”

“They do, actually. It was some kind of poison.”

“Poison!” For once, Dorothy was silent. For a moment. “You mean she
was
poisoned? Or that she took it herself, intentionally?”

“One of the two. There’s no way of knowing without at least identifying the poison. That’s why Dr. Stevens referred the situation to the police.”

“No.”

Maggie couldn’t tell whether the “no” was a comment, a question, or a reaction.

“Will they—the police—be questioning all of us?”

“I’d guess so. Since we were at your house when Sarah got ill.”

“Maggie, I need to see you. Privately. Quickly. Now.”

“I have a nine-o’clock class.”

“It’s only six. I need to tell you something, in strictest confidence. And I don’t want you to come here.” Dorothy hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to disturb Oliver. He usually sleeps in. Could you meet me in the parking lot of Christ Episcopal Church? You know where it is—just down the street from the college? No one should be there at this hour.”

Maggie hesitated; should she invite Dorothy to her home? Why was it so important they not be seen?

“Give me half an hour to shower and dress. No, make that forty-five minutes.”

“I’ll meet you there at six forty-five.”

Maggie headed for the bathroom, almost tripping over Winslow, who was wishing her a good day in his own way. The hot water revived her, and the smell of her favorite lavender soap brought back a sense of normalcy. Sarah would be all right. Dorothy would calm down. The doctor must be mistaken; no one had tried to hurt Sarah. Aura would be fine, and her mother would come home to her. And Maggie would get something to eat and then have a moment to glance through her day’s schedule before meeting Dorothy. What could Dorothy have on her mind that was so secretive it had to be told in a church parking lot at a quarter to seven in the morning?

She bandaged her injured toe, pulled on brown slacks and a white turtleneck, pinned on a rhinestone
M
pin for luck, and was pouring herself a glass of Diet Pepsi (with caffeine) when the doorbell rang. Could Dorothy have changed her mind and come here?

Maggie plugged in her electric kettle just in case she’d need to offer tea or coffee.

But neither of the people standing at her front door holding detectives’ badges was Dorothy. One was a young black woman, shorter than Maggie—perhaps five feet four inches tall. Her slightly paunchy partner was a middle-aged white male who looked as though he needed coffee. Badly.

“Professor Summer?”

“Yes.”

“We’re from the Somerset County detectives unit.” Simultaneous flashing of badges. “Sorry to be here so early, but we’d like to ask you a few questions.” The man spoke, but the woman was the one with the black notebook. “About Sarah Anderson.”

Had Sarah died? Why were the police here? “I talked with Dr. Stevens late last night,” said Maggie. “She was still in a coma. Has there been any change?”

“Not that we’ve heard. May we come in?”

Maggie moved aside. The two detectives walked in, clearly taking mental notes about the state of the house. She wished she’d vacuumed yesterday afternoon, or moved the portfolios. Or done almost anything but what she
had
done: matted prints and then gone to the Whitcombs’ party. The party where Sarah had collapsed.

The kettle whistled in the kitchen.

“Would you like some tea, or instant coffee? Sorry I don’t have any perked.” Maggie headed for the kitchen to turn off the kettle. How long would this visit from the police take? Dorothy didn’t deal well with waiting for people. But if Dorothy had wanted a private meeting, then thank goodness she hadn’t come here. Maggie grimaced as she wondered what the neighbors would think of her early-morning visit from the police. Had they driven a patrol car? She hadn’t noticed.

“No, thanks,” said the woman, following Maggie to the kitchen. “I’m Detective Newton, and this is Detective Luciani.” Luciani nodded his head as he looked around the kitchen.

Maggie hoped there wasn’t anything in the room that could be construed as poison. A bottle of aspirin was lying on the windowsill. Other than an overdose of black pepper or garlic salt, there was nothing else she could see that might be of interest to the detectives. “Won’t you sit down?”

Detective Newton took the lead. “How long have you known Ms. Anderson?”

“Since late August. Sarah Anderson lives in Whitcomb House, at Somerset College. I was assigned to be the faculty adviser to the residents of Whitcomb House, and I first met with them at an orientation meeting the week before Labor Day.”

“You had access to their records?”

“To their college applications and essays explaining their interest in the Whitcomb House experiment.”

“Experiment?”

“That’s how the administration thinks of it. Some colleges have tried dorms for single parents, but not many have tied the dorm residences into a full scholarship program and day care.”

“And the program is under your direction?” Detective Newton was asking questions and taking notes; Detective Luciani seemed to be memorizing the pattern of the pots hanging on the wall.

“No. It’s under the administration of President Hagfield’s office.” Why was that? Maggie suddenly wondered. Why hadn’t Max delegated the program to someone else? Maybe because of its high visibility. “It’s the first year of a new program, and President Hagfield wants to make sure it runs smoothly, so he’s keeping a close eye on it.”

“How
is
the program going?”

“Of course, we haven’t even finished one semester. It will take at least a full year to evaluate the program. But all of the students are completing their class work and seem to be taking the opportunity they’ve been given seriously. They’re conscious of being the first ones in the program.”

“So it’s a bit of an honor.”

Maggie hesitated. “I believe there were several dozen applications for the six positions open. But you’d have to talk to people in Admissions to find out about that. I wasn’t involved until the students had been chosen and moved to campus.”

“And your job is?”

“To teach American Studies and be adviser to about thirty students. These six students were assigned to me as a group because their needs were seen as a little different from those of our other students. President Hagfield wanted one person to work with all of them in case any problems arose that could be considered group problems, or we were able to identify issues which would require the college to change the program to better meet the needs of these students.”

“And have you seen any problems?”

“Not so far. They’re a remarkable group of dedicated young parents and students.” Maggie hoped they wouldn’t ask about Tiffany’s grades or Heather’s attendance or whether all the children were potty trained. There certainly were no problems in Whitcomb House that could have anything to do with Sarah’s being in the hospital.

“What do you know about Sarah Anderson?”

“She was in the foster care system here in New Jersey until she was eighteen. She’s been on her own since then. She has a cute little girl, Aura, who is four. Sarah worked as a waitress at a diner before she came to Somerset College.” Maggie remembered what Tiffany had said last night. “She wants to teach kindergarten someday.”

“Does she have many friends?”

“I only saw her at Whitcomb House and occasionally on campus. The Whitcomb House residents have gotten to know each other well. I don’t know if she has any other friends. But it’s certainly possible.”

“Or family?”

“Or family. But there are no family members listed in her records.”

“She made you her daughter’s guardian.”

How had the police learned that so quickly? Dr. Stevens must have mentioned it to them. She should have kept her mouth shut last night.

“Yes.”

“You said you met her at the end of August and had no prior relationship with her.” Detective Newton looked down at her notes. “Doesn’t it seem unusual that she’d ask you to take such a major role in her daughter’s life after knowing you for such a short time?”

“I arrange Monday-night discussion groups at Whitcomb House. Most are led by outside experts. One of the guests was a lawyer. She emphasized that every single parent should have a will and a legal plan designating someone to care for their children if they were no longer able to. I believe after she spoke most of the Whitcomb House residents made out simple wills. That was when Sarah asked me to be Aura’s guardian in case of her death or incapacity. She said she had no one else to ask.” Sarah had said she wanted Aura to have a strong role model, Maggie remembered. She’d been flattered to have been asked.

“Do you have children, Professor Summer?”

“No.”

“Are you married?”

“I’m a widow.”

“I see.” Detective Newton made another note.

What did she see?

“So President Hagfield was concerned about these young people.” Detective Luciani had a voice. A deep one. He was no longer focusing on the copper pans. He was focusing on Maggie.

“Yes.”

“Did he have any special interest in the young women in the group? Or in any particular young woman in the group?”

Maggie looked at him sharply. “I never had that impression. Never. President Hagfield’s an excellent administrator. He puts Somerset College first. He would never do anything to tarnish its reputation.”

“And last night you and all these single mothers and President Hagfield were at a party at the home of Dorothy and Oliver Whitcomb.”

“Yes. And, for the record, one of the residents of Whitcomb House is a single father. He was there, too. Other Somerset students and professors were also at the Whitcombs’. Perhaps forty people in all.”

“And you were with Ms. Anderson when she got sick.”

“She seemed confused; she said she was dizzy, and then she just collapsed. Someone called 911. Mrs. Whitcomb and I drove to the hospital to see if we could help in any way.”

“Mrs. Whitcomb is the person behind the money for this dormitory for unmarried parents?”

Maggie nodded.

“Sounds as though she’s pretty involved with the students.”

“She cares about the success of the program.” Much too involved, Maggie added to herself. She needs a life. But that was Dorothy’s issue, not a police problem.

“Before we leave, Professor Summer. Bottom line. Can you think of anyone who would benefit from Sarah Anderson’s death?”

“No! She’s a dear, sweet girl, and an excellent mother, who’s working hard toward making a future for herself and her daughter. There is absolutely no reason I know of for anyone to hurt her.”

But, of course, someone had.