Drowning With Others

by Linda Keir

  The letters were paper-clipped together with a handwritten note that simply read, Thank you for keeping me apprised of the situation. I understand your concern and will have a conversation with Mr. Royal.

  She showed Ian. “Can you make out this signature?”

  He could, instantly. “It’s Gerald Matheson.”

  “The conversation must have done the trick, because Roy continued working there.”

  “Not without more complaints,” he said, handing her a sheaf of memos that thinned over the years, as though his coworkers had come to accept the status quo.

  “Should we call Matheson and ask him about it?”

  “Let’s track down Orzibal first.”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Two weeks had passed since receiving the letters declaring that Whitney and Owen had officially been accepted to Glenlake, and the family had finally gotten the traditional Copeland celebratory dinner at the country club on the schedule. Cope and Biz were dignifying the occasion with a school tie and pearls, respectively. Andi was wearing a cocktail dress, and even the twins had dressed more nicely than usual. Ian wondered at times whether one or both of them might rebel and ask to attend school near home, but neither had. Whitney reverentially attached their acceptance letters to the fridge with magnets on all four corners. Where Cassidy went, they would, too—their parents probably didn’t factor too much into the decision.

  Judging by her drink orders, Andi was very much in the spirit of things. She chatted happily with the people who stopped by their table. Over the years she’d become better known—and, he suspected, better liked—than he was. Privately, she still joked about dyeing her hair blonde and wearing a Lilly Pulitzer sundress, bemoaning her fate as the “token Jew in WASP-ville,” but that was more out of habit than actual aggravation. She’d featured the stately homes of enough club members in her books that they surely saw her as part of their overall PR plan, but that wasn’t all of it. She was genuinely liked.

  Ian himself was enjoying the smiles and chatter at the table but couldn’t quite enter the flow of the conversation. There were just too many loose ends—one in particular he needed to tie up tonight.

  “And how is our cub reporter, Cassidy?” asked Biz, interrupting his flow of thought. “Are there any national newspapers threatening to hire her and derail our college plans?”

  “Are there any national newspapers left?” cracked Cope, the mainstream media being one of his favorite targets.

  “She’s still crusading on behalf of Curtis Royal,” Ian told them, pretending not to notice as Owen showed Whitney something on the phone in his lap.

  “Teenage years are the perfect time to champion lost causes,” said Cope sagely.

  “He certainly seems guilty,” Andi said, quietly so she wouldn’t attract the attention of the twins, who found the case fascinating. “But the whole thing is weird. Why would he kill Walker and then take a job on campus?”

  Cope sipped his watery bourbon on the rocks. “You know what they say about criminals returning to the scene of the crime. And—”

  “Glenlake is the perfect cover, when you think about it,” interrupted Biz, earning a glare from Cope. “Nobody would expect the killer to stick around like that.”

  “Killer to stick around like what?” piped up Owen, noticing as he did the baked caprese appetizer in front of him and forking a bite.

  “They’re talking about the Prep School Poet Murder, dummy,” said Whitney. “That’s what they called it on the news,” she explained in response to Owen’s look.

  Ian addressed his parents, wishing the whole thing hadn’t come up but realizing it was too late to stop now. “The circumstances struck us as funny, so I got in touch with Ted Orzibal, who was Walker’s supervisor at the time. He told me Royal was the worst employee they ever had. The running joke was that he must have had pictures of the headmaster sleeping with somebody,” said Ian.

  “Ian, the kids,” cautioned Andi as Biz coughed, then washed the bite down with a deep drink of water.

  “If it was blackmail pictures, they could have turned him loose after Darrow kicked the bucket!” chortled Cope.

  “Cope,” groaned Biz.

  “I am so gonna be a journalist, too,” said Owen delightedly. “Dead bodies and people sleeping together!”

  “First, you have to cover city council meetings,” warned Cope. “You’ll want to put your own eyes out.”

  “The journalism class is presenting their project just before spring break,” said Andi, trying to steer the conversation gently back to neutral ground. “It will be interesting to see what they’ve learned before they wrap up.”

  “Are you still going to Mexico?” asked Biz, and Andi was all too happy to jump on the gambit, telling her mother-in-law all about their plans to spend six days in Playa del Carmen.

  “I know you’ll be glad when Cassidy is out of that journalist’s clutches,” Cope told Ian confidentially. “Not that my heart bleeds for the poet or the groundskeeper, but really, it’s time to move on.”

  Ian’s innocuous suggestion that his parents might want to take their grandkids for dessert paid immediate dividends, with Cope and Biz driving Whitney and Owen away in their Lexus and promising to drop them home after Ian and Andi had enjoyed a nightcap. Wink, wink.

  As he got behind the wheel of his Audi, Ian felt heavy with what he was about to tell Andi, replaying last night’s voice mail from Preston in his mind.

  What the fuck are you doing, Ian? You want out of our business arrangement, just like that? Well, let me tell you something, buddy—one word from me and we go down together. So I want you to consider your position carefully. I’m going to send this inventory back, and you’re going to sell it, only the terms won’t be quite as kind as last time.

  “You seem distracted tonight, Ian. What’s wrong?” asked Andi. Then, as he headed into Clayton, she added, “And why are you going home this way?”

  He drove for a few minutes in silence before deciding there was no appropriate transition.

  “I have something to tell you,” he said.

  Andi listened mutely as he explained how he’d surprised Preston in Chicago before digging through his trash. By the time he’d finished, they’d pulled up outside the now-closed Grape and Barley.

  “You need to end the partnership, and now,” she told him.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  Walking her inside, he showed her the barren shelves in the empty display case, the sign informing customers OUR CUSTOMERS’ RESPONSE TO THIS UNIQUE AND IRREPLACEABLE PRODUCT HAS BEEN SUCH THAT WE ARE SIMPLY UNABLE TO KEEP UP WITH DEMAND. PLEASE BE PATIENT WHILE WE SOURCE ADDITIONAL SUPPLIERS FOR VINTAGE SPIRITS.

  “So you leave it up until people forget, and then stock something else here?” she asked, relief visible on her face.

  Without answering, he led her off the sales floor into his office, closing the door behind them to ensure they weren’t overheard by any of the cleaning staff working throughout the store.

  “Preston’s demanding that I take the stock back. He knows my reputation is at risk if anything gets out, and he’s counting on me being afraid to stand up to him. And—”

  “And?”

  “And if I end the partnership, I’m losing my best chance to pay back the loan I took from Simon.”

  “As in my father Simon?”

  Ian nodded.

  “Why would you need to borrow from him?”

  “The business was in a pinch with new building costs exceeding estimates, and I’d fronted all I had for store number three. I’d have hit up Cope, but he doesn’t have the reserves he used to. Not liquid.”

  “But we have money.”

  “Not three hundred fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Oh,” she said, as if the wind had been knocked out of her.

  He forced himself to look her in the eye. “The loan was supposed to be short-term, just to bridge the gap. But now I won’t be able to pay Simon back in time to avoid the penalty
he negotiated.”

  “And what is the penalty?”

  “If I don’t make full repayment within one year, he gains a twenty percent ownership stake in Grape and Barley, Incorporated,” Ian said.

  Ian waited for his wife to explode with righteous anger, berating him for being as stupid as he felt.

  “I fucking hate it when Simon pulls this kind of shit,” she finally said, her mouth a thin line.

  “I’ve never borrowed money from him before,” he said, genuinely surprised.

  “This is exactly why you shouldn’t,” she said, reaching for her phone.

  Before he could beg her not to, she’d already dialed.

  Ian was both mortified and relieved as his wife began to banter with her father, whose booming basso came through loud and clear.

  “Twenty percent of the business if he doesn’t pay you back in a year?” she asked, without even saying hello.

  “I wondered how long it would take him to tell you,” Simon said with a laugh. “He’s got six months left, per my calendar.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Andi said. “You’d have written me a check without batting an eye.”

  “It’s different when it’s man-to-man.”

  “That’s not the most sexist thing you’ve ever said, but it’s close.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  As much as he hated having his wife deal with the mess he’d created, Ian had always felt a grudging admiration for the ease with which Andi and Simon communicated, even when they argued. Despite the tension, there was genuine warmth.

  “You mean Ian wouldn’t feel like a man if he didn’t have to work for your generosity.”

  “Something like that.”

  “You couldn’t have charged him a garden-variety usurious interest rate?”

  “I wasn’t trying to screw him. He’s my son-in-law.”

  “The road to hell—”

  “Put him on the phone,” Simon said.

  “He’s not—”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Andi. I know he’s there.”

  Ian reached for her phone. She sighed and handed it to him.

  “Simon,” he said.

  “What’s going on?”

  Simon listened while Ian detailed the Preston situation, interrupting only once to say, “Damn it, I was looking forward to all the authentic Mad Men–era Cutty Sark I could drink, not to mention the amazing bottles I was going to give out for Hanukkah.”

  “It’s still all-you-can-drink counterfeit Cutty,” Ian said. “At least until I’m found out.”

  “I know you’re good for the money,” Simon reassured him. “And if you need more time, that’s fine. As for this douchebag in Chicago, I think I know someone who knows someone who can convince him it’s in his best interests to pipe down and leave you alone.”

  Ian quailed, thinking he was about to graduate from unknowing accessory to fraud to something much worse.

  “He’s not going to get—”

  “Hurt? Not if he’s got half a brain.”

  Did he believe Simon? Simon couldn’t even know that himself. But without direct knowledge of what was going to happen, Ian was well insulated—with any luck he could stay that way. Giving himself over to the blithe confidence of Simon Bloom seemed the best option all around.

  Simon took his silence for the assent it was. “Don’t worry about it. Consider the problem handled.”

  “Thank you, Simon.”

  “I’ve had my eye on you for a long time, Ian, and I know you’ll always do the right thing by Andi. Keep taking care of my girl,” he said, and hung up.

  Ian and Andi looked at each other and said, simultaneously, “I think Simon may really be a gangster.” And then: “Jinx.”

  “Can you think of a better place to have our nightcap?” Ian asked.

  Andi answered by locking the office door.

  Chapter Sixty

  Cassidy had never seen Mr. Kelly look so tired. He had bags under his eyes, his hair was sticking up in back as if he’d missed it while combing, and he was wearing a wrinkled blue shirt, untucked, without either of the two blazers he normally alternated. He knew they all noticed, obviously.

  “Pretend it’s career day,” he began, “and I’m dressed not in the uniform of a visiting teacher but of a working journalist. This is what you look like when you’ve spent the last sixty hours or so chasing leads.”

  As heads turned quizzically, Cassidy felt a tingle of excitement at where she thought he was going.

  “Curtis ‘Roy’ Royal, he of the unimaginative nickname, is incarcerated pending trial, and most of us believed that, when justice was eventually served, he would be proved guilty. One of your classmates, however”—and here he looked right at her, so briefly she wasn’t sure anyone noticed—“didn’t feel we’d done enough to eliminate reasonable doubt. And though I cursed her name repeatedly over my lost weekend, she was probably right. Can anyone guess what I was doing?”

  No one could guess. Cassidy knew but didn’t want to raise her hand. So Tate, whom she’d told, bailed her out by raising his. She wanted to kiss him.

  “Checking out the snitch?”

  “Well done, Tate,” said Mr. Kelly, looking at Cassidy longer this time. “And listen to your hardened slang. You could be a court reporter, a public defender, or even a detective with delivery like that. But because I have been specifically instructed not to let tender young souls such as yourselves anywhere near the machinery of our judicial system, I took it upon myself to learn the identity of the man who fingered Roy in exchange for leniency in an upcoming trial. I then learned that the night in question, when Roy was alleged to have threatened Dallas Walker’s life over a drug deal gone bad, was Saturday, February 8, 1997. What was the next logical step?”

  “Write the guy a thank-you note?” said Noah to a mix of laughs and groans.

  “Any intelligent ideas?” asked Mr. Kelly without smiling.

  Hannah raised her hand. “Try to find out who else was there. To see if anyone else could confirm the story.”

  “Exactly,” he said with a nod. “Which, given the nature of the party and how much time had passed, wasn’t easy. I did locate three party guests, however. I was able to interview one over email, one by phone, and one I had to track down in person, forty miles away, at a men’s shelter in Elgin.”

  Cassidy knew Mr. Kelly was telling them all this so they’d know how he did it, which was part of the lesson. But he was also drawing it out so much the suspense was killing her. Trying to read his expression, all she could decide was that he didn’t look happy. But maybe he was just really, really tired.

  “What did you find out?” she blurted, unable to resist.

  He sighed and took his usual seat on the corner of his desk. “All of them confirmed that Roy was at the party and that he was known to deal drugs. One of them confirmed that Dallas Walker was there, too, with a young girl nobody recognized. Another one remembered a fight but couldn’t remember who was involved.”

  “So nothing contradicts the snitch’s story,” said Tate. “Even though nothing adds to it.”

  “Correct,” said Mr. Kelly. “However, there was one more thing they all agreed upon: the snitch himself was never there.”

  Nobody knew what to make of that, although Cassidy herself was so excited to hear it she let out a weird yelp that made Felicia totally roll her eyes. If the snitch himself was going on secondhand information, and the sheriff’s department didn’t have anything more detailed to go on, how could they prove Roy was guilty? The case was thin enough to start with.

  “Are you going to tell Detective Gavras?” asked Cassidy eagerly.

  “I met with him earlier this morning, another reason I look like shit and I’m tired. He received the news with his usual good grace, which is to say he’s sick of our meddling in his case. But I guarantee you he’ll look at it.”

  “And charges against Roy will get dropped?” Tate asked.

  “I’ve been in this busin
ess too long to predict what will happen, but if charges against Roy are dropped, there’s one person besides me you can thank: Cassidy Copeland.”

  From the looks everyone was giving her, Cassidy wasn’t sure she wanted the acknowledgment. Most of them seemed to want Roy found guilty, not innocent. But she knew they’d come around.

  Now it was a matter of seeing what the Lake County Sheriff’s Office made of this news.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  As they made their way across campus, past the new writing center, which from the outside looked ready to host events but apparently still lacked carpet and tile, Andi couldn’t help but laugh at the twins’ different reactions to their first visit since learning they were officially coming to Glenlake. Whitney, perhaps predictably, stayed by their side, bubbly and effusive but displaying the poise she deemed necessary for a freshman-to-be. Owen, meanwhile, ranged ahead like a dog on point, scampering and climbing, casting wistful looks at his sister, who refused to join in.

  They still hadn’t seen Cassidy, but she had been a presence since morning on the family group text.

  BIG NEWS, she’d announced.

  College news??? Whitney had texted back.

  Owen, ever the supportive little brother, offered his condolences in advance: Sorry they all rejected you.

  Yes college, wrote Cassidy. I got into Amherst.

  She’d already been accepted to Syracuse, Northeastern, and Colby but, given Copeland tradition, seemed to be leaning toward her father’s alma mater.

  Terras irradient, texted Ian.

  That means “Earth is radioactive,” translated Owen helpfully.

  Congratulations, Cassidy, Andi had added.

  A short while later, Cassidy had texted again: But that’s not the really big news.

  What??? wondered Whitney.

  YOU’LL FIND OUT TONIGHT, answered Cassidy, going radio silent after that.

  “Tonight” being the journalism seminar’s presentation. Just as Andi had been a key organizer of the poetry slam (in hindsight, horribly named), Cassidy was on the committee for her class’s event. And while such presentations usually drew modest audiences, it was the evening before spring break, so families like theirs who were headed off to vacation from O’Hare provided more warm bodies. More to the point, the interest in a case that had made national news guaranteed this one would be standing room only.