Summer Session

by Merry Jones

  Trent looked away.

  Harper put a hand on his arm. But the arm was suddenly not Trent’s; it was Graham’s. Harper pulled her hand away, turned.

  Trent poured another finger of Scotch. ‘Have you talked to Vicki lately?’

  Harper bit her lip. Shook her head, no.

  ‘Poor Vicki.’ Trent exhaled Scotch breath. ‘I’m afraid she didn’t marry well.’

  Oh Lord. Trent was diving into drunken self-flagellation. Harper was in no mood for it. She was exhausted, more than a little inebriated. Her head throbbed.

  ‘Fact is, since Hank’s injury, I haven’t been much of a husband.’

  ‘You’ve been upset. I’m sure she understands.’

  ‘Well, her head might. But others of her body parts are less inclined to reason.’

  What? Time for Trent to stop talking. ‘Speaking of Vicki, she must be wondering—’

  ‘You know the parts I mean. The parts that don’t do much thinking. But, truth be known, lately my dear wife’s parts haven’t had much interest in mine.’

  Trent’s eyes were glazed and he stared at her without seeing. Harper wanted him and his glassy stare to go home. Dear God, she’d been mugged and her student was dead, and now, to cap her day off, she had to listen to Trent whine about his sex life?

  ‘Trent, Vicki’s probably worried.’ She stood, indicating that he should follow. Trent didn’t move. The walls did, though. They shimmied and swayed; Harper held on to a kitchen chair, steadying herself.

  ‘Yes,’ Trent said into his glass. ‘My Vicki has begun to set her fires in other hearths, I’m afraid.’

  What? Harper sat again, dizzy and dumbfounded. ‘Vicki wouldn’t cheat.’

  ‘Really? You underestimate our Vicki.’ His smile was bitter. ‘For example, did you know she had a thing for Hank?’

  Harper was indignant. How dare he imply such a thing? Even with too much Scotch in him, there was no excuse.

  He leaned closer. ‘You’re surprised?’ He grinned morbidly. ‘Hank Jennings, PhD. Mountain climber, spelunker, intellectual, hunk extraordinaire. The perfect male specimen. How can you feign surprise that other women would be drawn to him?’

  ‘That’s enough, Trent.’ Harper leaned on the table and stood again. ‘Go home.’

  Trent stared at her breasts. ‘You know, if two can play, so can four.’ Suddenly, clumsily, he lurched, lips puckered. Harper stepped aside, yanked his shirt collar to break his fall, and, balancing carefully, dragged him out of the room.

  Trent opened his mouth, raising a finger as if to spout profundities, but Harper kept moving, pulling him along. At the door, she shoved him on to the porch, turned on the outside lights and, minimally concerned about his lack of sobriety, watched as he staggered to the driveway, climbed on to his bike and pedaled unsteadily away.

  Harper went back to the kitchen and downed the rest of her Scotch, washing away her encounter with Trent. Or trying to. She was depleted, needed to eat something. It was almost eleven, and she hadn’t had anything since the pie. She opened the freezer, found half-empty ice cream containers, frozen lima beans and a few Lean Cuisines. Selected some kind of peanut noodle chicken thing. She’d eaten worse. Like cold MREs. Or even hot ones. Plopping the thing into the microwave, she set the timer and began shivering. Suddenly, she was icy cold, despite the warm night air.

  Harper went to the hall closet and pulled out Hank’s big down-filled winter jacket. It hung on her, oversized and thick, and she snuggled inside it, trying to stop the shaking. She shouldn’t have had all that Scotch. She recognized the symptoms, had seen them in others: she was in shock.

  Keep moving, Harper told herself. Get your blood circulating. She paced the floors, the events of the day pacing with her. Graham’s curls dropping from sight. The flashback of the war. The damned bike rider, the gaping mouth of the gorge. And Trent. Lord. Had Vicki – her best friend – really had a crush on Hank? No, not possible. It had just been Trent’s inebriated insecurity talking. Nothing more.

  Back in the kitchen, with cold, unsteady hands, Harper took out a can of soda, a fork and spoon. The spoon reminded her of pie and, unexpectedly, she saw Ron Kendall’s golden eyes.

  Ron Kendall. Why was she thinking of him?

  She opened the soda can. Actually, it wasn’t a surprise if Vicki had a crush on Hank. Who could blame her? Especially since – let’s be honest – the poor woman was married to a drunken twit. And a crush didn’t mean anything had actually happened between Hank and Vicki. Of course, it hadn’t.

  Harper sipped Dr Pepper. She was feeling vulnerable, having just been mugged and witnessed a suicide. But hell, she’d survived a war, wasn’t about to be bothered by something as trivial as a crush. Even so, she wandered the house in Hank’s parka, searching for his face in old photographs, staring at close-ups, wondering whether deceit would show in a person’s eyes.

  All she saw were Hank’s familiar rugged features, his hearty, open smile. His laughing eyes held no hint of secrecy. She needed to forget about Trent and go to bed. She needed sleep. She needed this day to end.

  But Harper didn’t go up to bed. She stayed in the unfinished family room, studying photograph albums, revisiting the past with Hank. And, some twenty minutes later, that’s what she was still doing when the doorbell rang.

  Just before midnight on that hot summer night, Detective Charlene Rivers found Harper Jennings at home, bleary-eyed, wearing a huge down-filled winter jacket and reeking of Scotch.

  ‘Evening, Mrs Jennings. Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’ Harper stepped aside.

  Deep inside the house, something was beeping.

  ‘What’s that sound?’

  ‘Sound?’ Harper seemed unaware of it, cocked her head, listening. ‘Oh – damn, I forgot.’

  Together, they entered the kitchen, where they rescued an abandoned peanut noodly pre-packaged dinner from the microwave.

  Detective Rivers was all business, observant. She scanned the room quickly: a tan corduroy jacket on a chair, a couple of used glasses and a mostly empty bottle of Scotch. She’d been in the room months earlier. It was emptier now, lacked fresh-cut flowers and the clutter of an active kitchen. She saw changes in Harper, too: the fatigue in her eyes, the gauntness of her face, the deep purple tones around the cut on her cheekbone.

  Harper offered a soda; Detective Rivers declined.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Jennings?’

  ‘Harper. Please, call me Harper. Yes, I’m fine.’ She thought she should record that sentence. ‘Come sit down.’

  Leaving the dinner on the counter, Harper led the detective to the living room. The place was a mess, the carpet rolled up and the furniture covered with drop cloths.

  She yanked the cloth off a corner of the sofa and gestured for the detective to sit; didn’t bother to uncover the matching easy chair, just sat on it.

  For a moment, they were silent, watching each other.

  ‘Kind of late for a visit, isn’t it, Detective? What’s on your mind?’

  Detective Rivers studied her. ‘I saw your lights on, took a chance you were up. I have some more questions for you.’

  Harper wondered why the questions couldn’t wait until morning.

  ‘You said you had no idea what led to Graham Reynolds’ suicide?’

  ‘Not a clue.’ She saw Ron holding the pill.

  ‘What did you do after the suicide?’

  ‘You mean, all day?’

  ‘Yes. All day.’

  Lord. Was this necessary? Why now? Slowly, Harper retraced her steps. When she finished, there was silence.

  Detective Rivers didn’t move. She watched Harper until Harper began to feel uneasy and shifted positions, crossing her aching left leg.

  ‘Where did you say you had coffee with the doctor?’

  Harper was losing patience. ‘I’m sorry, Detective. But I don’t see how a cup of coffee relates to Graham’s suicide.’

  Detective Rivers crossed her arms. ‘Actually,
Mrs Jennings – I mean, Harper – I’m not here about the suicide.’

  Harper felt another chill and hunkered down into Hank’s parka. ‘Then, why are you here?’

  ‘Because there’s another body.’

  Another body?

  ‘A young woman. Murdered. She was found tonight, out near Taughannock Falls.’

  Harper stopped breathing. A young woman? Oh God. Was another of her students dead? She pictured Anna or Shaundra or Gwen lying on the ground.

  ‘Her throat was cut; in fact, she was sliced up pretty good. And raped.’

  How awful. Harper’s jaw clenched. ‘Who was she?’ She braced herself to hear.

  ‘Her name was Chelsea Burns. She was a waitress.’

  Harper released a breath, actually relieved that her students were apparently still alive and unhurt. But, if the victim wasn’t one of her students, why was Detective Rivers here?

  ‘But why are you telling me about this?’

  ‘Good question.’ Detective Rivers leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and looked into Harper’s eyes. ‘I wouldn’t normally. But, I’m curious, Mrs Jen— sorry, I’m not good with first names. Mrs Jennings, how well did you know the victim?’

  ‘Know her?’ Harper started to answer that she didn’t know her at all.

  But the detective cut her off. ‘See, the thing is, you might want to think about it before you answer. Because Chelsea Burns obviously knew you; she had your grade book in her purse.’

  ‘My grade book?’ That made no sense. Harper’s grade book was with her students’ papers, in her big leather sack.

  But then she remembered. That morning in the coffee shop. Her sack had fallen, spilling its contents into the aisle. The waitress – had her name been Chelsea? Oh God – she was dead? The young woman who had helped her pick everything up? Harper recalled the long nails and ringed fingers gathering up her belongings – her keys, wallet, baby wipes, papers, markers, loose change. But her grade book? It must have landed out of sight, and Chelsea must have found it later, Must have put it in her purse, intending to return it. But Harper should have noticed it missing. Why hadn’t she? She remembered the spill; Ron sitting across from her, wearing Spandex.

  ‘OK. When I was in the coffee shop, I dropped my bag. My grade book must have fallen out; the waitress must have found it.’

  ‘That would explain it.’ But the detective didn’t seem satisfied. ‘Mrs Jennings, I won’t play games with you. I know a little bit about you.’

  She did?

  ‘You told me you were army, served in Iraq. I know you were wounded there.’ She glanced at Harper’s bad leg.

  ‘That’s right.’ So? Why was her leg relevant?

  ‘I also know about your husband and what happened to him.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘I guess you don’t remember. It’s understandable; you were pretty distraught. But I took the call. In fact, I was here for quite a while after your husband’s accident.’

  Harper didn’t remember, couldn’t recall any faces other than Hank’s. And there he was again, in the hedges, banged up and bloodied.

  ‘How’s he doing, by the way?’

  ‘Hank?’ Stupid question. What other husband did she have? ‘He’s coming along.’

  Detective Rivers watched her, but not unkindly. ‘You know, Mrs Jennings – Harper – Ithaca’s a pretty small city. And, in the summer when most students are gone, it’s generally quiet. But today, in twenty-four hours, we’ve had a suicide, a mugging, a murder.’

  Harper huddled into the parka.

  ‘We have two healthy young people dead. True, one’s a suicide and one’s a homicide. But both were violent. And both of the deceased are connected to you.’

  Harper stiffened. ‘What are you saying, Detect—’

  ‘Relax.’ Her tone softened. ‘I’m not saying you’re responsible.’ She put her hands up as if to ward Harper off. ‘I’m just saying that this is Ithaca. Oh, it’s not Eden. We get our share of crimes: date rapes, kids driving under the influence, fights at bars, stolen IDs, drug overdoses. A few suicides every year. Once in a while, we get homicides. Matter of fact, you might remember Jimmy Moran killing his wife and her boyfriend back in December. And I mentioned earlier the recent rapes, arsons and deaths associated with those pills you gave me.’

  ‘That waitress – did she have pills on her, too?’

  ‘No. At least, we didn’t find any.’ Detective Rivers tilted her head. ‘But my point is, two violent deaths within a day? Not in Ithaca. That’s not normal. And even less normal are two violent deaths and a mugging on the same day that both of the dead victims have spent time in the company of the mugging victim—’

  ‘Now wait – I had nothing to do with that murder. I didn’t even know that waitress—’

  ‘Still.’ Detective Rivers pursed her lips, nodding. ‘It’s odd, don’t you think?’

  Harper didn’t answer. But yes, it was odd.

  ‘Assuming that you had nothing to do with either death, here’s my point. Given the unlikelihood that the victims’ connections to you are coincidental, and given that you’ve already been attacked once, you might opt to exercise extreme caution.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Harper blinked.

  ‘OK. Try this. These incidents are too close to you for comfort. I wish our department had spare officers to keep an eye on you, but we don’t. The best I can do is have a car drive by now and then. But, until we figure this out, I don’t think you should be alone. Do you have a friend you could stay with for a while?’

  Harper sat speechless. Hours ago, Leslie had given her the same advice.

  ‘Do you? A girlfriend maybe?’

  Harper thought of Vicki. But she didn’t want to go there. ‘I don’t know.’

  Detective Rivers let out a sigh. ‘Well, think about it, OK? I understand that, being a combat veteran, you probably assume you can take care of yourself. But that didn’t work too well for you earlier today. If I were you, I’d avoid being alone. I’d keep my eyes open and my backside covered.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. Why would someone want to hurt me?’ She pictured a hooded figure on a bicycle and felt the open-mouthed pull of the gorge.

  ‘I don’t know. But somebody already has. And we have to assume he’ll try again.’ Detective Rivers stood, put a card on the coffee table. ‘Harper, you think of anything, need anything, call me. I’ll look in on you as frequently as I can. But, even with police drive-bys, you need to be careful. Lock your doors and windows when I leave.’ The detective’s eyes insisted on compliance.

  Harper walked her to the door and double-locked it behind her. Then she went back to the kitchen and locked the door, threw the uneaten noodly peanut thing into the trash and downed another shot of Scotch.

  In the morning, leather bag secured behind her, Harper was a bit hungover as she piloted the Ninja to visit Hank. She rode around campus along Thurston to East, over to Hoy, damp morning air clinging to her skin. The clouds had thickened; maybe it would finally rain, breaking the heatwave.

  Harper left the cycle in the lot, following her usual routine as if it were just another hot summer day. As if she weren’t looking around, eyeing strangers. Pedestrians. Drivers. Detective Rivers’ warning had intensified Harper’s state of alert. Why was that guy in jogging gear lingering at the corner? Was he really reading that magazine? And that woman in the Bimmer – was she staring?

  Harper walked across the parking lot, braced for a fight, assuring herself that Detective Rivers was wrong. It was merely a coincidence that she’d seen both Graham and Chelsea shortly before their deaths. Nobody could reasonably think that the suicide and the murder were connected to each other, much less to her. Still, she was watchful. And bothered by something else.

  Trent’s insinuation plagued her. The idea of Hank and Vicki was absurd; Hank wouldn’t cheat. And, if he would, it wouldn’t be with Vicki, his best friend’s wife and his wife’s best friend. So why was she bothered?

  Entering
the building, her mind bounced from one troubling topic to another. Preoccupied, she signed in at reception, greeted Laurie and hurried to the elevator. When the doors opened on the third floor, she almost barreled into Ron Kendall’s partner, Dr Steven Wyatt.

  Dr Wyatt was the senior of the two, more heavily established in the medical community and a principal force in the establishment of Cayuga Neurological Center. Obviously, though, his stature as a physician hadn’t heightened his self-esteem. A tall, stout, socially inept man, Dr Wyatt struggled to conceal his baldness with an ill-fitting toupee, darker and straighter than the sideburns protruding from it.

  ‘Mrs Jennings.’ The line of Dr Wyatt’s mouth barely moved when he spoke.

  ‘Hello.’ Harper tried to pass.

  Dr Wyatt, though, didn’t move aside or step into the elevator. He stood stiffly, eyeing her closely. ‘Are you doing very fine today?’ He cleared his throat, as if to erase his bungled phrasing.

  Harper didn’t want to discuss how she was doing. Stepping around him, she forced a smile and a ‘yes, thanks, and you?’ and kept moving, head down so she’d make eye contact with no one else. She didn’t slow down until she got to Hank’s room, but, even as she entered 307, she felt Dr Wyatt’s probing gaze following her, piercing her back.

  As soon as he saw her, Hank’s eyes sparkled their usual affectionate light. His kiss felt the same as usual. And he wore his usual hearty grin, unmarred by guilt or deceit. Harper snuggled against him, fitting herself into the crevice between his torso and his undamaged arm, breathing in synchrony. She was with Hank – her Hank. And the troubles of the outside world faded – wars, suicides, murders. Cheating.

  But there had been no cheating. Trent’s ramblings had been merely boozy banter. Harper nuzzled, secure and hopeful. Soon Hank would be well enough to come home. The recent crimes would be solved. Life would resume where it had left off.

  ‘News?’

  News. Oh dear. He wanted to know what was going on. But it wasn’t right to burden Hank with accounts of murder and suicide. There was one incident that she could tell him about, though.

  ‘Trent came by.’

  Hank frowned.