The Body in the Bonfire (23 page)

Daryl had rushed in before the others arrived and had thrown his arms around her.

“I can't believe it! Buxton, yes. Kids do things like this to other kids, but an adult? A teacher! Mrs. Avery is going to try to keep the whole thing as low-key as possible. I know what the school is and what it stands for—the kind of race and class privilege—but it's still my school and I don't want to see it in the headlines, or me, either. I guess—as they say—I have some ‘issues.' I called my parents last night to let them know what had happened, and the first thing my mama is going to do when I go home on Sunday is whack me upside the head for not telling her, then cry. My dad was cool, as usual. Just said he figured I knew how to handle myself.”

The class had prepared the chicken dish, but when they sat down to eat, no one had seemed very hungry. It had been distressing to watch a roomful of teenage boys pick at their food. After his initial good humor—and relief—Daryl had been subdued, too. The only one chowing down and smiling was little Brian Perkins. He didn't seem to have a care in the world. When he'd left, Faith had found out why. “My parents said I can go to Aleford High next fall if I still want to transfer.”

“I guess they didn't know how unhappy you were,” Faith had said.

“Not really.” Brian had squirmed. “I think it's more because of…well, the bad stuff that's been happening here.” And he was out the door.

Duh, Faith had told herself.

Surprisingly, Sloane's friends, Sinclair and James, were the ones who'd broken the silence earlier at the table, turning to Daryl.

“Man, you have to believe that we didn't know he was doing any of that shit,” Sinclair said, then glanced at Faith, “Excuse my language.”

“Go ahead,” she'd encouraged. “You're doing fine.”

James had blushed. “I mean, we know he wasn't your best friend and made some remarks—to you, too, Cohen—but we didn't know what a sick bastard he was.”

Daryl nodded, but Zach was someplace else. Had been someplace else since he'd arrived at class. And Faith knew where. He was thinking of the lists—and his lost laptop. She'd called him and he'd given her as much as he remembered of the relevant information. The irrelevant information—the stars next to Zoë's name—was traveling into deep memory.

Mrs. Harcourt. Dead. The boys hadn't wanted to talk about that. Several of them had come in Carleton House's back door, avoiding the front hall altogether—the front hall, with its faint chalk outline still visible.

No, thinking about the kids, she knew she couldn't leave them to someone else the next morning. There would be plenty of time to go to Harcourt's office. He made a big thing about his door always being open, so it wouldn't be locked. His philosophy was intended to assure students
and faculty of his accessibility. Faith was interested in accessing something else. She'd have to do it without Zach. Maybe Tom and she should rent the
Hackers
video tonight to watch when Ben and Amy were sound asleep. She might pick up some pointers.

 

There wasn't a soul around when Faith crept into the headmaster's office early the following morning. She'd waited in her car until she'd seen everyone go into the stone chapel. Now she carefully closed the door to the outer office and checked the other door—behind Harcourt's big desk—which led to a back staircase. If necessary, she could dart down it. Pleased at the way things were going so far, she turned to his computer. It was on, and as soon as she clicked, the screen sprang to life. A neat row of folder icons were arranged from top to bottom on the right side. She clicked on “Personal,” almost giddy with anticipation. It opened right away. No password. Not even
Sesame.
She looked at the files: “Mother,” “Sis,” “Zoë,” and one entitled “Hgt./Wgt.” She checked them rapidly. Letters to his mother and sister, the “Zoë” file proved to be a list of presents he'd bought her over the years for Christmas, anniversaries, and birthdays. She'd done all right. “Hgt./Wgt.” was exactly what it said—his height and weight by year. Definitely anal-retentive. Mother's fault?

She closed the folder and looked down the
list of remaining ones: “Chapel Talks,” “Teacher Evs.,” “Correspondence,” “Misc.” What she was looking for could be hidden anywhere. She went to “Find File” and typed in various possibilities, but nothing came up. Not until she typed “Rec Letters,” and there it was, a five-star endorsement of Sloane Buxton's application to Harvard, addressed personally to Harcourt's old friend, the dean of admissions. “Seldom have I had the opportunity to recommend a student so highly,” the headmaster had written. And there was no “Call me if you want to talk about this further” at the end to give the game away. That phrase was code for “Everything I've written is bullshit; call me to find out what I really think.”

She printed the letter and tucked it into her pocket, then turned to “Misc.” It would have been madness for Harcourt to transfer information from Sloane's laptop onto this office computer. If he had copied anything before getting rid of the computer, he would have put it on his own laptop or another computer at home—or even his Palm Pilot. There was nothing in “Misc.” Faith thought she'd have a quick look at his E-mail before she left, when a folder marked “Firmness” caught her eye. It must have something to do with discipline, or, knowing Harcourt, New Year's resolutions for the past twenty years and whether he'd stuck to them. She opened it and was stunned to see only one item fill the screen, a
studio portrait of Connie Reed, a portrait taken some years ago, probably about the time Harcourt bought the school.

“Firmness. Constancy, Constance, Connie.”

They were in it together. In love with each other and in love with the school. And they'd do anything for Mansfield, even kill.

Feeling sick, Faith started to shut down. She'd found what she was looking for.

“He didn't put it there; I did.”

The door behind the desk closed softly. It was Connie.

“I told him it was a joke. When he needed me, all he had to do was click. I labeled the folder ‘Firmness' because that was another of our little jokes. That I was the one who kept his backbone firm. Not that he needed it. Not when it came to the school, that is.”

“Except it wasn't a joke,” Faith said.

Connie didn't answer; then, lowering her eyes, she muttered, “He doesn't know.”

“That you killed Sloane Buxton?”

The woman's head jerked up.

“He deserved it! He was blackmailing Robert and selling drugs to some of our weaker boys! I knew he wasn't good enough for us from the moment he came to be interviewed, but Robert wanted to increase our diversity. Sloane's family wasn't like most of our families. Robert thought the boy deserved a chance. A chance to do what? Have sex with the headmaster's wife and God
knows who else, degrading our campus with his perverted behavior!”

Connie took a deep breath.

“He had to be stopped. He would have plagued Robert for the rest of his life in one way or another.”

She was strong and fit enough to have murdered Buxton, then lifted his body into the crate, Faith realized, at the same time noting that Connie wasn't mentioning Sloane's hate campaign as one of his sins.

“I'm not sorry. I'll never be sorry. It was easy really. He met me down by the lake. I told him I had something to tell him I didn't want overheard. He was so stupid.” Her voice was filled with contempt. “Why would I meet him there?”

Why indeed? Faith thought. Because Sloane thought Connie Reed a pathetic old maid, one who could no longer control her desire for him. Another notch.

“There was almost no blood,” Connie continued in a slightly wondering tone. “I had thought there would be a lot of blood, but there wasn't. I stabbed him; he gave a little cry and died. I'd left a sled in the woods, and it was easy to move him to the old piano packing boxes on it, then lift him up and drop him in one. I covered him with a thick layer of old rags and linens that I'd taken from housekeeping. They're so lax, they never know what they have. Then I put some of the cartons lying by the bonfire on the very top. I
dropped my gloves down one of the holes the ice fishermen have made and went to dinner. It didn't take long.”

And then all Constance Reed had to do was wait until someone struck a match.

Well planned and well executed by the trim figure standing before Faith in her camel-hair coat, woolen muffler in the school's colors, and sensible boots. Boots. Connie had killed Zoë too.

There was no need to ask questions. The woman was obviously dying to talk to someone about her accomplishments. And Faith was glad to listen—in between wondering how she could get to the phone in her purse on the floor and once again call the police.

“And then, of course, I had to get rid of that woman. We all knew she slept with members of the faculty. That was no concern to me. But a Mansfield boy! I heard it all, heard it from the kitchen in Carleton House when you and that misfit Zachary Cohen were using Sloane's computer. Computers! Sometimes I think they're more of a curse than a blessing, although they do make scheduling easier.”

Connie's mind was wandering far afield. Well, at least Faith now knew there was no hope of retrieving the laptop. It was no doubt at the bottom of the lake with the gloves—possibly also Sloane's watch and signet ring—its battery shorted out and all those names obliterated forever.

“So you told Zoë to meet you the next morning at Carleton House?”

“Another ignorant one. Oh, my poor Robert, how he's suffered with her. She was threatening to stop funding the school! ‘We may have to pursue some alternative funding sources, Connie,' he said. I knew what that meant. Selfish woman! I told her to meet me in Sloane's room after the students went to chapel, said I'd found his laptop with the list. She turned up all right, but when I confronted her, she just laughed and said she would be leaving the school for good soon and didn't really care what happened to it. She only wanted to look at the list to see who else was on it! Her wantonness knew no bounds. I simply pushed her, and down the stairs she went. The funny thing was that her heel did catch in her hem. I didn't have to do a thing. Now Robert is free and the school is safe.”

And all's right with the world, Faith was tempted to add. But it wasn't. She bent down to pick up her bag.

“Don't do that,” Connie said sharply.

Faith straightened up.

“Everyone will be leaving chapel soon. We have to hurry,” Connie added.

Faith was afraid to ask where they were going. But she had to stall, for suddenly another stumbling block had appeared on Ms. Reed's road to happiness, and she wasn't about to let it get in her way. Faith was not underestimating the lengths to
which this efficient killer would go, and Faith's only ally was time.

“Hurry? Why? Where are we going?”

“To the lake. That way, when your body is discovered at the same place, the police will assume it's a serial killer.”

How many bodies did it take to categorize someone as a serial killer? Faith had never thought about this before, but closing in on three could well qualify a person as such. The woman was larger than Faith, but she figured she could put up a good fight and make enough noise to attract attention as they walked across campus. There had to be someone about. Then she felt the blade. It passed through the bulky layers of Faith's winter clothing like a butter knife through a stick that had been left out on a summer's day. It wasn't a deep wound, but it hurt like hell.

Connie's voice hissed sibilantly in Faith's ear: “I left chapel early. There's been so much to do with Mrs. Harcourt and then this Winston Freer trouble—your fault completely. I saw you through the door and slipped around to the back, Miss Nosy Parker. I had to find out what you were up to now. None of this was any of your concern. That's why I followed you to Carleton House, too.” She made it all sound like an egregious breach of manners. “You should have stayed out of everything and stuck to your cooking. Now, move!” She pushed the knife in farther.

“Please,” Faith pleaded. “You're right. You needed to do what you did. You
don't
need to kill me. I have nothing to do with all this. Please, I have two small children….” She was begging for her life.

“No, Connie.” Robert Harcourt strode into the center of the room. Without letting go of her weapon, Connie threw herself at his feet, a dog come to heel.

“No, Connie,” he repeated loudly. “I've been in your office for the last few minutes, not believing what I've been hearing.”

Faith wished he had thought to step in a little sooner. She could feel blood oozing from her wound, and aside from the fact that several articles of designer clothing, including a silk Lejaby camisole, were irreparably ruined, she knew she needed stitches—immediately.

“I think we should call the—” she started to say when Connie's paroxysm of sobs drowned out all else.

“You can't say you don't know that I love you! Have loved you from the beginning! And you love me, too. I've always known it. We can leave right now. Even if she”—she paused, and the distaste in her voice was evident; between Freer and Connie, Faith hadn't been making a whole lot of friends at Mansfield lately—“calls the police immediately, it will be awhile before they get here. We could tie her up. Yes, that's it. Tie her up and get to the airport. Start another school, where no one will ever
find us. I have quite a nest egg saved up, and it's all yours. Ours. We can stop at the bank.”

Robert Harcourt was aghast, and revolted, all six foot one, 180 pounds of him, the latest “Hgt./Wgt.” entry.

“But I loved my wife. Surely you knew that. Yes, she had some weaknesses. I didn't care. She was so beautiful, so charming; of course men flocked to her. But she was everything to me.”