Drawn and Buttered

by Shari Randall

  “Aren’t you going to look?” Verity said.

  “You look.”

  “No, you look! You’re the one who dragged me up here.”

  I stepped quietly past the window. “We’ll come back later.”

  I hoped that wasn’t Max’s room.

  Soft sounds of sitar and temple bells came from the next room; the window was open but screened. A lava lamp swirled the walls with clouds of red and yellow, and the scent of pot flowed out the window. Several bodies lay on two beds, one of which was an empty mattress next to a desk that held only bongs and candles. Everyone in the room wore Hawaiian leis.

  “Leis,” I muttered. Just like the ones on our mermaid at the shack.

  One kid strummed a guitar. He gave me a friendly chin jut as I passed the window. I waved back. Maybe people on the fire escape weren’t unusual. I crept carefully past some pots, some quite large, which were growing luxuriantly healthy marijuana plants.

  “They’re growing their own,” I said. I wondered if they were grown in the basement and had been moved outside when the cops came to search? The frat brothers could have hidden the plants in the arboretum. Talk about blending in.

  The next room was dark, the window open a few inches at the bottom. I listened. Despite the thumping music and shouting downstairs, the room was quiet. Empty.

  “I think this was the room Nate Ellis came out of.” I gripped the window frame and raised it, then hooked a leg over the sill and eased inside.

  Verity stayed put.

  “Aren’t you coming?” I whispered.

  Verity shook her head. “I’ll be the lookout.”

  This is breaking and entering. I shouldn’t be here. But I couldn’t help myself. I had to find that backpack, had to see what was on the papers Max stole.

  The room had a sense of order that was at odds with everything else I’d seen at the frat. There was one queen-sized bed and the bedspread was smoothed neatly over the mattress. I pulled open the closet door: all the clothing was neatly hung, shoes arranged, not tossed. No backpack. There was a laptop computer on a desk with a hutch over the top. I brushed a finger across the touchpad and the screen sprang to life.

  A spreadsheet.

  “What’s on the computer,” Verity whispered.

  “Lots of numbers. Names and phone numbers.”

  I slid open a panel on the hutch revealing plastic baggies of pot.

  “Do you think that was what was in Max’s bag?” Verity whispered from the windowsill.

  “Maybe. But Isobel told me that Max had stolen her father’s papers. Royal was furious. That seemed a lot more serious than weed.” I pulled open a drawer with vials of white powder—coke. “Holy crap! I think he had something more dangerous than a few bags of weed in his backpack.” I slid open a top drawer. Inside were stacks of dirty and wrinkled bills.

  Footsteps approached and the door opened.

  I whirled toward the window and was halfway out when Nate came in.

  “Hey, you!” He grabbed me from behind, wrapping his arms around my waist, knocking me to the floor. I kicked and squirmed and somehow managed to buck him off. I jumped up as Nate scrambled back to his feet and ran at me again. Bracing myself against the windowsill, I kicked out with both feet, knocking him to his butt.

  I twisted around and threw my leg over the windowsill. I was almost out when he scrambled back to his feet, grabbed my hair, and pulled me back into the room. I shrieked and fumbled for his hands as he swung me off balance. I fell to my knees.

  “What the hell are you doing here!” he bellowed as he shook me. “We—”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a green blur, then I heard a crash. Nate groaned. He went limp and collapsed on top of me. Something soft and damp dropped onto my hair and my arms. Clumps of dirt and shards of clay lay scattered around us.

  “Verity?” I rolled to the side and Nate slumped onto the floor.

  Verity sat half in, half out the window, still holding the broken pot of pot in her hands. She dropped it and stepped back onto the fire escape. I staggered to my feet, threw my leg over the sill, and hopped out the window. I looked back inside. Nate rolled on the floor, groaning and holding his head.

  “Are you okay?” Verity grabbed my arm and brushed dirt off my shoulder.

  I took stock. I was winded and shocked, and my scalp hurt where Nate had pulled my hair, but I was okay. “Hurry, let’s go before he gets up.”

  We scrambled down the fire escape and ran across the darkened campus back to our cars. No one followed, but still I jumped at every shadow, even when it was some guy carrying an armful of books or girls in party outfits walking to meet friends. My adrenaline slowly dropped and by the time we got to the Arts Center parking lot, my heart rate was somewhere near normal.

  “Well, that was a drag and terrifying and dumb, all at the same time.” Verity flung herself onto the hood of the Tank and fanned herself. “We’ll just wait for the cops to come and arrest us for trespassing.”

  “I don’t think they will. They have a lot to hide at that frat, Sade.” I laughed and rolled on the hood of the car. “Miss Sade Wellington.”

  “Really, Allie, you have to plan ahead. I had my story all ready to go. Sade Wellington, exchange student from Washington, D.C., studying government. And what was your story?”

  I was laughing so hard I had to wipe my eyes. “Didn’t have one. Didn’t think we’d get caught.” Then the reality of what we’d done washed over me and I was struck by a wave of fatigue. What I’d done was so incredibly dumb. Thank God we hadn’t gotten caught or arrested. “Well, Verity, thanks for coming out with me tonight.”

  “No worries,” she said. “That was too much excitement for one evening. I have to go home and get the dirt out from under my nails. Besides, with this outfit I might as well stay home.”

  We got in our cars. I watched the red taillights burn as the Tank rolled out.

  I started the van and followed. Were the drugs reason enough for Max to keep his backpack by his side? It explained the frat’s subterfuge with the police. The frat couldn’t let the cops search that room.

  But I knew that Max had stolen papers from Royal. Where were they?

  I drove past the college library. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see kids in study carrels hunched over books and laptops. It was surprising that so many were studying on a Saturday night. What had Nate said? Max had been a good student. He studied sometimes in the chapel library, a place you went if you were desperate for a quiet spot to study.

  Desperate.

  I made a quick decision and pulled into the empty parking lot behind the chapel.

  I ran up the slate steps and pushed through the heavy wooden doors into hushed silence. In the vestibule, three doors faced me, one into the main church, one labeled RESTROOM, and the other labeled STAIRS TO LIBRARY, with an arrow pointing down. The chapel door fell shut softly behind me as I headed to the stairs.

  The stairs turned into a narrow, whitewashed hallway. At the end of the hall was a door marked LIBRARY. I turned the knob slowly. A library inside a chapel—it was so quiet my breathing sounded not just harsh but sacrilegious.

  I slipped through the door and eased it shut behind me. The library was a single room with rows of bookshelves at one end and two long wooden study tables in the middle. On the wall opposite the shelves were two doors, one marked STUDY ROOM A the second STUDY ROOM B. The only people in the library were a guy sleeping at one of the tables and a tall girl with an Afro nodding to music on her headphones as she shelved books from a cart.

  I peeked inside study room A, then study room B. Both were dark. I slipped into study room B and hoped nobody was sleeping in it. Talk about quiet—a study room in a library in the basement of a chapel. This must be the quietest spot on campus. There was a mustiness that made me think the door to this room was rarely opened. My pulse thundered in my ears as I flicked a switch and fluorescent lights buzzed on overhead. There was a single wooden carrel and chair
. I checked to be sure—no backpack stashed there. I turned back to the door.

  On a coat hook on the wall behind the door hung a navy blue Graystone College windbreaker. I pulled it aside, hardly daring to hope.

  Underneath the coat was a black backpack. It had the same key ring with the same pocketknife, marlinspike, and floating orange key fob attached I’d noticed at the Mermaid.

  I took the backpack to the carrel, my hands tingling. This had to be Max’s.

  I thought for a moment, rushed to the door, and turned the knob. There was no way to lock the door. The staff probably didn’t want students to be able to lock the door. I could imagine what kids would get up to here—if they even knew this quiet spot existed.

  I went back to the backpack and unzipped it, revealing folders stuffed with papers and a magazine, New England Scholarly History, the same one I’d seen in Lyman Smith’s office. Tucked inside was a stack of papers clipped together. Max’s homework? There was also a map. I traced the lines with my finger. Old Farms Road. The map showed the Parish property and the cemetery. I set it aside.

  Underneath were three file folders. I flipped open the first folder. I’m no lawyer, it was page after page of legalese, but a name made me stop turning the pages.

  Maxwell J. Hempstead III. Possession of a controlled substance. Intent to sell. Injury to a minor. This was why Max’s father had cut him off.

  I flipped through the papers.

  Another name jumped out. Nathan Adams Ellis. The frat president who’d dated Isobel and who’d just tackled me at the party. I scanned the papers. Destruction of property. Hazing. Assault. I wondered if he’d hazed Max.

  Other names came into focus. Loida. Wyman. Shaw. These were some of oldest and wealthiest families in not just Mystic Bay, but New England. One of them, Shaw, was running for U.S. Senate. I scanned the paper with his name. It looked like a contract, with several signatures at the end. The words sexual assault leaped out at me.

  Oh my God. This was dynamite. From what I could glean, these were not papers filed with the police. These were settlement contracts to hide what these well-connected young men had done, to pay off their victims.

  So why take the papers? Royal had defended Max—successfully. Why would Max take these contracts, want these secrets?

  Max’s dad had cut him off. Max needed money.

  It came into focus.

  Max was a blackmailer—or was planning to be. All these secrets, indiscretions, outright crimes Royal had swept under the rug would be brought into the bright and humiliating light of day by Max—unless he was paid to be quiet. I considered. The theft at the Parish mansion had taken place just three days ago. Max had probably been silenced before he could blackmail anyone. Or had he? He stole the papers on Wednesday and he was dead Saturday night. He’d have to be the world’s fastest blackmailer.

  I stuffed the papers and files into the bag and slung it over my shoulder. I remembered Bronwyn telling me once about something called chain of evidence. I should call the police immediately. But I couldn’t leave these papers lying around. Surely a custodian would come in here to vacuum? They wouldn’t close the door. A student would eventually come in to study and shut the door and see the coat and backpack. The papers could end up in the wrong hands. Again.

  Your hands are the wrong hands, too, a little voice said.

  I ignored it.

  Though I tried to be as quiet as possible, the door banged shut behind me and the backpack’s canvas fabric rasped against my shirt as I hurried up the stairs and through the front doors of the chapel.

  * * *

  As I swung into the driveway at Gull’s Nest, my headlights illuminated Lorel’s blue BMW sedan. Lorel’s home again?

  I needed to think.

  Lorel and Aunt Gully sat together in the living room. Aunt Gully had her feet up on Uncle Rocco’s Barcalounger, her head resting against the well-worn brown leather as she sipped tea and turned the pages of a book. Lorel had her feet curled beneath her, a glass of red wine on the coffee table. She paged through one of Aunt Gully’s People magazines.

  Lorel really wanted this Chowdaheads deal to go through if she was willing to sit at home on a Saturday night and read People magazine with Aunt Gully.

  “There you are! What were you up to tonight?” Aunt Gully said.

  “Verity and I stopped at a party.” And I got tackled by an enraged frat boy when I broke in looking for Max Hempstead’s backpack. Verity hit him over the head with a potted marijuana plant. Then I found a backpack full of secrets that probably got Max Hempstead killed.

  “Fun?” Lorel asked.

  I shrugged. “I’ve been to better parties.”

  I grabbed a cup of tea and slice of coffee cake, called, “Good night,” and ran upstairs. I hung the backpack on a hook in the back of my closet and shut the door. Then I settled into the rocking chair by the window and sipped tea as I flipped through the folders again.

  Think, Allie.

  I had a bag full of secrets, secrets someone might have killed to get. I had no idea what I should do with them. Well, I did. I should turn them in to the police. But I hesitated. Was there anything in that backpack that would hurt Madame Monachova? I had to look through them more carefully first, make sure there was nothing in there that had to do with her.

  The only normal things in the pack were the magazine and stack of papers held together with a paper clip. Homework? I read the title. “Rosamund Parish: A New Perspective on the Legend of Otis Parish” by Fern Doucette.

  It wasn’t Max’s paper. It was Fern’s. Why did Max have a paper written by Fern Doucette?

  Chapter 33

  Sunday

  For once I woke up feeling refreshed. Thank you for the extra hour of sleep, daylight savings time! My favorite day of the year.

  I ate a quick breakfast and drove to Boston for company class and rehearsal. I jogged into the studio and instantly noted the subdued mood of everyone in the room. I ran up to Cody.

  “What’s going on?”

  Cody pushed back his sandy hair. “It’s Kellye. She broke her arm.”

  “No!” I gasped. “What happened?”

  Cody threw a glance at Margot, who was warming up at the barre. “Kellye fell down the stairs to the basement.”

  The same stairs I’d fallen down. “I can’t believe that.” Impossible, just impossible.

  His jaw hard, Cody folded his arms. “Believe it.”

  We both turned and looked at Margot. “Allie, I don’t know what to do. I mean, there’s no proof, but Margot was jealous of you and look what happened. She’s been putting down Kellye for weeks and look what happened.”

  Serge came into the room and called, “Places.”

  I was so shocked by Cody’s news that I could barely pay attention to my steps. After class, I headed toward Margot. I had questions I needed her to answer. But Serge called me over, and Margot hurried out the studio door.

  My thoughts churned as I drove back to Mystic Bay, but thoughts of Max’s murder pushed Margot from my mind. After a quick shower, I grabbed the backpack—I didn’t want to let it out of my sight. Lorel and Aunt Gully had taken her BMW, so I drove the van to the Mermaid. The parking lot was full, so full that patrons were even sitting at our rickety meeting room table. They were soaking up the beautiful day—the sky was that deep autumn blue, such a perfect backdrop to the scarlet and orange leaves of the trees.

  I carried Max’s backpack into Aunt Gully’s office and hung it on a peg next to some extra aprons. I shut the door firmly, my hand lingering on the knob. Guilt thrummed through me. I had to take it to the police.

  Before leaving for rehearsal, I’d gone through every file and had been thankful that Madame’s name didn’t show up once. But the presence of Fern’s paper baffled me. Why did Max Hempstead have her homework? I wanted to talk to her.

  What did I really know about Fern Doucette? Besides the fact that she had a cute baby and was friends with Beltane. I did know there was no love l
ost between her and Max. Was her anger about being replaced as Lyman’s TA enough to drive her to kill Max?

  Through the pass-through, I noticed Aunt Gully, Lorel, and Don O’Neill seated together at a table by the door. Don slid his sunglasses into a pocket on his safari vest, which he wore over a BOSTON MARATHON T-shirt.

  I washed my hands. “What’s up with Don O’Neill? What did he bring Aunt Gully today? I didn’t see a pony in the parking lot.”

  Hilda looked up from the worktable, her gloved hands flecked with bits of red lobster shell. “Get this. Don O’Neill offered Aunt Gully her photo on the label of Chowdahead’s takeout cups. It’s not credit exactly, but they will pay a hefty sum and it’s a nice gesture.”

  “We got a hefty sum for catering that party on the Fourth of July and she hasn’t spent a dime, even though that van is being held together by rust,” I said. “Money just doesn’t motivate Aunt Gully.”

  “True. Well, we have things under control here. Go see what’s up. I’m dying to know.”

  As I joined the group in the dining room, Don leaned back in his chair. “… Chowdaheads franchise. The chowder will be made in a big state-of-the-art facility—”

  I slid into the fourth seat at the table, nodding to everyone.

  “Facility?” Aunt Gully wrinkled her nose.

  Don smiled. “Don’t you worry. It has the most modern safeguards and purity rules. Top-notch scientific standards.”

  “Science?” Aunt Gully frowned.

  Don leaned forward. “Then the chowder will be frozen and—”

  “Frozen?” Aunt Gully’s eyebrows shot up

  “Trucked and reheated in—”

  “Facility? Frozen? Trucks?” Aunt Gully shook her head. Then to my surprise she laughed.

  “You’ve given me a lot to think about. Thank you.” She patted Don’s hand and gave him her twinkliest smile, her dark eyes warm, her head tilted slightly. The guy smiled back, a genuine, wide smile. Lorel and I exchanged glances, mine pleased, hers panicked.

  Don actually thinks he’s won her over.

  When Aunt Gully used her hypnotizing smile, I knew exactly what it meant. Lorel’s mouth dropped open. She knew what it meant, too.