by Kara Taylor
“Oh.”
“It’s nothing to worry about,” she says. “I mean, no one blames you for what Dr. Harrow tried to do, but things could get awkward since the Westbrooks are friends with a lot of the parents that will be there. And people talk.…”
“It’s okay. I get it. What about the Shepherds?”
Remy looks surprised. “What about them?”
“Are they friends with the Westbrooks?” I ask.
“Oh, my God, no.” Remy wraps a cranberry-colored scarf around her neck. “Casey’s dad donated a million dollars to Mr. Westbrook’s opponent last election.”
Ouch. “Pretty harsh way to treat a former rowing buddy.”
“Mm-hmm.” Remy surveys herself in the mirror. She’s wearing a Wheatley School sweatshirt, which is, of course, cranberry. She turns to me. “You’re not wearing any Wheatley gear! How will people know who you’re cheering for?”
I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but I’m not exactly oozing Wheatley pride. “I dunno.”
Remy takes her scarf off and wraps it around my neck. The Wheatley crest is sewn onto the tail ends. “Here.”
“Thanks.” I humor her while she adjusts it; I’m desperate to get the conversation back to the senator. “So did they have a falling out or something?”
“Who?”
“Travis Shepherd. And Mr. Westbrook.”
“Oh. No, I don’t think so.” Remy spritzes some perfume on—Philosophy Amazing Grace—and we head downstairs. “When Alexis’s dad ran for Senate last term, some people accused him of doing whatever he could to get elected, even if it meant flip-flopping on important stuff. Mr. Shepherd stopped supporting him when he changed his policy on tax breaks for corporations.”
I say silent thanks that Remy is well versed in Massachusetts’s politics, as we wait for the Wheatley sports shuttle bus that will take us to the harbor. I consider everything she said about Shepherd and Westbrook, wondering if there’s another reason they had a falling out.
When Remy isn’t looking, I pull up the draft of the e-mail I wrote this morning, addressed to the members of the 1972 crew team.
I just hope they remembered to bring their BlackBerries to today’s race.
* * *
There’s already a lot of other Wheatley students camped out on the sides of the Charles River. Most are sitting on blankets, which I wish I’d thought of, since the grass is damp in that early May way. Luckily, I’m with Remy, who not only remembered a blanket but trail mix, bottled water, and a copy of Marie Claire.
“In case we get bored,” she explains. “The men’s eight is after the lightweight race.”
I have no idea what a lightweight race is, but I know that the men’s 8 is Brent’s race. I help Remy lay the blanket down, eyeing the white tent set up to our right. Jill, Lizzie, and Brooke, Alexis’s former peons, stand outside of it, putting the finishing touches on a homemade “GO WHEATLEY!” banner. They’ve painted brown oars all over it, and now they’re writing the names of the guys on the oars with glitter pens.
I’m not surprised to see Jill filling in Brent’s name. When she senses me staring, she nudges Brooke and whispers something to her.
Sometimes I worry that Jill and Brent have more in common than he and I do. She’s taller than him, but that’s okay. Her hair is the color of corn silk, and she plays every sport Wheatley has to offer. She’s editor in chief of the newspaper, and she’ll probably go to Dartmouth or UPenn or Northwestern.
And she’s probably not the type of girl to lie to her boyfriend.
A few teachers emerge from the tent with Styrofoam cups of coffee, along with people in Wheatley sweatshirts whom I assume are parents. Inside the tent is a banner reading “WHEATLEY SCHOOL ALUMNI ASSOCIATION.”
I think I know where the members of the 1981 team will be when they get here. I glance at the screen of my phone: We’re twenty minutes early.
I shield my eyes from the sun as I look across the river to the boathouse. About thirty guys are milling around the area where I suppose the boats launch from. I can pick out the Wheatley guys by their black and red Under Armour. The sun catches all of the gold strands in Cole’s hair. He looks up and waves at us. We wave back while Cole nudges Brent.
At first he smiles, as Remy hollers across the river at him. Then confusion registers on his face. He lifts a hand and locks eyes with me.
I return his wave, unsmiling, before Brent turns back to the boathouse. Coach Tretter comes out and gathers the guys. He looks pissed, but then again he always looks pissed. The guys stand, bored, while Tretter gives them what looks like a thorough tongue lashing. Probably his version of a pep talk.
I do a 180-degree scan of Wheatley’s area. It looks like Brent’s dad is a no show. Our tent is packed now, making it impossible for me to tell if anyone else from the photo is actually here or not.
If none of them came, my plan won’t work.
A bullhorn sounds across the river, and someone announces the lightweight race. There’s cheering from the sides as the smaller guys load into the boats. Remy prattles on as they take off. The Wheatley lightweights—mostly lowerclassmen and Zach Walton—are getting killed by Ellison Prep.
Across the river, Tretter is having a full-on hissy fit: red face, stamping his feet. He disappears behind the boathouse.
The sides of the river are packed with spectators now, so I have to crane my neck to get a good look at the Alumni Association tent. It’s also crowded, with more people crammed around the edges than inside.
“Should I do my hair like this for the formal?” Remy points to a model in Marie Claire with a soft braided chignon.
“Sure,” I say. “Hey, I’m gonna take a walk.”
I leave Remy and make my way toward the tent. That’s when I lock eyes with an older man, briefly, before he passes me without recognition. His hair is streaked with gray, but he has the same pointed chin and strong jaw as his son.
I pull up his Google bio on my phone to make sure it’s him: Travis Shepherd.
Shepherd rests his hand on a rail-thin blonde’s lower back—his wife—as his fellow alumni kiss his ass. His smile is barely detectable, and he never quite makes eye contact with the people speaking to him.
I find a tree to lean against so I can keep an eye on him. On the other side of the tree, a bunch of kids in Ellison Prep sweatshirts are setting up a lemonade dispenser. I watch Travis Shepherd schmooze with the other Massholes and refill his coffee. Whenever he thinks no one is looking, he checks his BlackBerry.
I don’t know if this is going to work, now that Pierce Conroy isn’t here and Tretter is distracted by the race. Do it, Anne. Smoke them out.
I pull up the e-mail on my phone and send the message before I can talk myself out of it.
To: [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: I know
Attached to my message is a scanned copy of the THEY KILLED HIM photo.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
I let myself watch the blood drain from Travis Shepherd’s face as he reads my e-mail. Then I hide behind the tree. Seconds later, he storms past me and over the bridge leading to where the bus dropped us off earlier.
Remy texts me: Where are you?? I delete the message and follow Shepherd with my eyes. He disappears behind the boathouse and reemerges moments later, followed by Coach Tretter.
They’re definitely trying to get away from the crowd. I follow them up the riverbank to the parking lot. There’s a yacht-club building at the center of the lot.
I blend in with the bored spectators heading toward the yacht club. I spot Tretter and Shepherd off to the side, overlooking the harbor. I circle around the back of the yacht club and duck behind a dumpster.
Coach Tretter is sweating beneath his Wheatley sweatshirt. “I didn’t send it.”
“Then who the hell did?” Tr
avis Shepherd growls.
“Steve?” Tretter says.
Shepherd runs a hand over his face and points to his BlackBerry, letting out a sharp laugh. “Does this look like something Steve would do? Someone with balls did this, Larry.”
I decide to take that as a compliment.
Larry Tretter mumbles something I can’t make out. But whatever it is, it angers Shepherd.
“I have worked too hard all of my life to let Weaver fuck up things for me again,” he growls. “And before you finally grow that conscience the apes forgot to pass down to you, remember that I own you, dumbass.”
Shepherd starts to stalk away from Tretter, who calls after him: “Wait.”
Shepherd turns around. Tretter catches up with him. I can’t hear what they whisper to each other, but Tretter’s ruddy cheeks get even redder, as if he wants to take a swing at Shepherd.
“None of this would have happened if you had minded your own business,” Shepherd snaps at him. “Couldn’t stand him being better than you, huh, Lawrence? Or were you afraid that piece of townie trash would tell everyone your daddy had to buy his little simpleton’s way into Wheatley?”
I wince, expecting Tretter to smash Shepherd’s face in. Instead, Tretter mutters something that sounds a lot like “e-mail” and “she.” Shepherd grabs Tretter by the collar of his sweatshirt. Well, at least I know where Casey gets that particular habit from.
“She’s dead,” Shepherd seethes in Tretter’s face. “Or did you forget?”
Shepherd lets go of Tretter, who looks rattled despite being twice Shepherd’s size. Shepherd cracks his neck and looks out to the river. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Lawrence, I have to watch that pack of lazy brats you call a crew team lose a race.”
“Your son is one of them,” Tretter calls to Shepherd’s back.
They’re both gone, but I can’t bring myself to get up from behind the dumpster.
She’s dead.
Who did he mean—Cynthia Westbrook or Sonia Russo? I think of Isabella and the photo tucked into the library book. She could be anyone.
All I know is that a lot of bodies are turning up where the 1981 crew team is concerned.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
My sparkly tights that I want to wear to the formal are a little snug around the butt area, so I get up early on Sunday morning to go for a jog. There’s only one problem: I refuse to go anywhere near the woods or the athletic track, because someone will see me and realize I’ve never been jogging a day in my life.
I have to run toward town, which almost ends in disaster, since the Wheatley School is on a hill. Trying to run downhill turns into a bizarre little forward hop. The sun is up, I’m sweating my ass off, and the only thing that could possibly make this worse is running into the last person I want to see right now.
Anthony pulls up next to me on his motorcycle. “Hop on.”
“Were you following me?”
“No. I was coming to see you.” He hands me his helmet. The motion makes his hoodie ride up, exposing a tanned sliver of skin above his belt.
I swallow. “As you can see, I’m busy exercising.”
“That’s what that was?”
“What do you want, Anthony?”
His faint smile falls. “I need to show you something. It’ll explain why I lied to you.”
I throw a glance over my shoulder. “Let me go back to my room and change.”
“No,” he says. “We have to go now.”
* * *
I could not be any crankier that Anthony has dragged me into town wearing nothing but my workout pants and a tank top. Then he stops in front of the Main Street Diner.
“This is what’s so important?” I hop off his bike. “The Weavers don’t own this place anymore.”
Anthony is quiet as he nudges his kickstand with his foot. He gestures for me to follow him up the steps, but we don’t go inside. He points to something through the window. It takes me a couple of seconds to realize he means the old man sitting at the counter, reading a newspaper.
“Every morning at nine he comes here,” Anthony says. “Orders two eggs over easy with toast, a black coffee, and buys a paper. Every day, for the past twenty years.”
I turn my head to him, waiting for the punch line. We’re standing closer to each other than I’d noticed. So close I can see the ghost of a scar on his upper lip and the beginnings of stubble on his jaw.
“My mom’s Uncle Pat,” Anthony finally says. “Raised her since she was twelve, when her parents died. Closest thing to a grandpa I’ve ever had. He’s the detective in the Dateline special I sent you. Pat Carroll.”
Whoa. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I haven’t spoken to him since my sister died,” he says. “He and my mom hadn’t been getting along since my dad got sick. Pat never wanted her to marry him.”
“Why not?”
“My mom’s family was supertraditional. Pat never married. Wanted my aunts and my mom to marry nice Irish-American boys. Imagine how he felt when she chose a nice Mexican-American boy.”
Anthony and I watch his great-uncle tap his coffee cup for a refill. The waitress doesn’t stop to chat with him.
“He never let my mom forget it,” Anthony says. “They fought all the time, until me and Iz were like three or four. Pat loved her. Every Sunday he’d come pick us up and take us somewhere different. Museums and stuff.”
He clears his throat. “Anyway, none of that’s important. But Pat’s the reason I was so into the Weaver story as a kid. Pat was always talking about the case. About how it was the biggest thing he regretted about his career.”
“Why?” I ask.
“I’m hoping he’ll tell you that himself.”
* * *
I wait outside and let Anthony approach his great-uncle alone. I expect to see a touching sort of reunion, but Pat simply clamps Anthony on the back and says nothing when he sits down. Almost as if he’s been waiting for him.
I’m starting to get a little cold without a jacket, so I move into the foyer of the diner. Anthony spots me and waves me inside. Reluctantly, I join him and his uncle at the counter.
Pat Carroll is a brick shithouse of an old man. He’s at least six feet tall, two hundred pounds. His long mouth is partially obscured by a thick white mustache.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Carroll.” I hold out my hand to him. He ignores it.
“Heard you been askin’ around about Matty Weaver.” His voice is gruff, with a thick Boston accent.
I look at Anthony, who nods to me. “Tell him what you found,.”
I describe the photo to Pat, whose beady eyes grow with interest. He doesn’t respond but dips his toast into the puddle of yolk on his plate. I don’t realize I’m staring until he says, “What is it?”
“You must have terrible cholesterol,” I say.
Pat Carroll lets out a belly laugh. “Wouldn’t know. Haven’t been to the doctor since Reagan was in office.”
He smiles at me, something transpiring in his expression. Maybe deciding he can trust me. “S’pose you already know we checked out the crew team when Matt went missing,” Pat says. “Couldn’t’a been clearer they were covering for one another.”
Pat dumps some sugar into his mug. “Matty worked here weekends when his parents owned the place. Girl he worked with told me a story. His first year at the school, couple of those guys came in. Purposely made a mess for Matty on the table. The kid was nearly in tears. She remembers that rat bastard senator calling him ‘townie trash.’”
“What about Westbrook’s girlfriend?” I ask. “Cynthia.”
Pat looks confused. “Cynthia Durham? Wasn’t Westbrook’s girlfriend back then. She was dating the other weasel. Shepherd.”
“Travis Shepherd?”
“Yep. Real slimy kid. One of the first to pull the ‘Call my lawyer’ card.” Pat drains his coffee. “I always thought he was the ringleader. All the students I questioned said he took Weaver under his wi
ng. Accepted him into the group. They said Weaver followed him around like a puppy. If you ask me, it was more like Shepherd was pulling Matty’s strings.”
Is that why Larry Tretter hated Matt? Because he replaced him not only on the men’s 4 team but as Travis Shepherd’s puppet?
Or was Shepherd right, about Matt knowing Larry Tretter wasn’t smart enough to get into Wheatley without his father’s money? I couldn’t imagine being angry enough with someone for knowing my secrets that I’d want to kill him or her. But then again, I’m not a 230-pound teenage boy with the strength of a gorilla. All it would take for Larry Tretter to put someone in a coma is a punch to the head. He easily could have gotten carried away and killed Matt in anger.
And how does Cynthia Durham fit into all of this? Did Travis Shepherd figure out how Matt felt about her, and go to extremes to make sure he didn’t lose what was his?
“There were lots of things about their story that didn’t add up,” Pat says. “Like what the security guard said.”
“You mean the basement thing?” Anthony says.
Pat nods. “Around ten thirty, a security guard heard something from the basement in the boys’ dormitory. Voices.”
“The guys?” I ask.
“Coincided with their alibi,” Pat says. “Westbrook, Tretter, Ennis, and Shepherd said they were all together. Playing poker. But we questioned the security guard, and he says he heard a conversation between three people.”
“So they lied?”
“I thought so,” Pat says. “But the consensus was there still could have been four guys down there.”
I drum my fingers on the counter, considering this. Or one of the guys could have left to meet Matt in the woods.
“I was convinced they were lying, that one of them knew something.” Pat’s voice is far off. “I should have put more heat on them. But the school pressured us into backing off. They owned the town back then. Even worse than they do now.”
Anthony and Pat avoid each other’s eyes. I know they must be thinking of Isabella.
