I laughed. “Uh-oh.”
“I meant that as a compliment, Ricky. It was his idea for this memorial garden business, you know. I believe it is also his money that paid for its creation and will continue to pay for its maintenance. A lot of hogwash, if you ask me, singling out an old fogey like me when we have an incredibly dedicated staff who all deserve recognition.”
“Dad’s idea?”
“Yes. So you see, he is thinking about you, my dear. Your father and I aren’t getting any younger, you know. I’m guessing this memorial is as much about you as it is about me.”
“I doubt it.”
“Give him a chance, Ricky. He’s eighty or more, isn’t he? And he loves you.”
I was developing a migraine, the pain shooting across my forehead like pulsating electric shocks. “Rolly, can we change the subject? Dad and me, it’s complicated. Besides, I’d much rather hear about you and the school.”
“He’s not to blame, you know.”
My voice squeaked. “For what?” I knew he referred to my mother’s suicide.
“Your mother made her own decision.”
“Please, Rolly.” My head was exploding now, my hands and face damp from the struggle of holding my emotions in check. I’d spent a lifetime pushing thoughts of my mother away, yet here I was, unglued again.
As we reached his front porch, he turned to me. “And you’re not to blame either.”
Fighting back tears, I looked away. “I know. I’ve spent years in therapy repeating that.”
He waved me into a porch rocker. “Sit and I’ll get us some iced tea. By the look of you, you need a couple of aspirin.”
“Just water. I have something here in my purse, thanks.”
As he disappeared, I closed my eyes. Several minutes passed before the rumble of engines revving startled me. I looked out across the lawn just as a lawn tractor emerged like a giant red lobster from a low building set back among the trees.
As Rolly reappeared, I pointed toward the shed. “I don’t remember that building.”
“Dreadful, isn’t it? One of those old Quonset huts dragged over from some navy base. They painted it green so it would blend in, but it’s still an eyesore. Needed it to store lawn equipment, I guess. Here, my dear,” he said, handing me a glass of water. “Drink this while I fix the tea.”
I swallowed two pills, leaning back, closing my eyes as the tractor’s rumble faded to a distant purr. It had been a long time since I consciously allowed myself to think, much less feel, anything in relation to my parents. Now I didn’t know where to put the revelation about Dad and Rolly’s memorial garden. I didn’t want to put it anywhere, because if I did, I would have to care, and caring always brought me back to the days when we were a family, eating an early supper at Duffy’s Diner before my softball games, or taking walks on the beach at Westport, Annie and me running ahead of my parents, looking back every so often to find them holding hands. Caring would carry me back to the day when Annie and I had found her huddled in a closet, the gun lying beside her on the blood-soaked floor.
By the time Rolly returned, the wonder pills had kicked in, the pulsing in my head now intermittent and bearable. As students came and went across the campus, we sat quietly chatting. A confirmed bachelor, Rolly had spent his life at Whitley, and recently, albeit reluctantly, decided to retire in two years.
“The school has offered me tenancy here for life, but I’ll take my chances with the Quakers,” he said, referring to a retirement community a few miles away. “No one wants a decrepit old codger like me hanging around, crumbling before their very eyes.”
I smiled, patting his hand. “They would love it, and you know it.”
We lapsed into silence, rocking gently, enjoying the beautiful day stretched in front of us. His house sat at the southern edge of the quad, a private residence now divided into three faculty apartments. His apartment on the ground floor was the largest, and the second floor had been divided into two smaller one-bedroom units, one of which was empty, the other occupied temporarily by Dinny.
“How much socializing do you do with your new neighbor?” I glanced sideways, watching his reaction.
“Oh, you know about him, do you? Sad business. Hope they patch things up. We come and go. Try not to make much of it. He slips in the back way at night, hoping to keep the rest of the campus in the dark, don’t you know?”
“And are they? In the dark?”
“For the most part, yes, I’d say they are. As far as I know, no one aside from me, the Board Chair, and his secretary knows. Except for Muriel, of course.”
“Ah, yes, Aunt Muriel.”
“Still packs quite a wallop, doesn’t she?”
“Likes her Scotch, too.”
“Always has. Her retirement was a blessing for Whitley. Dinny’s been good for the school, especially since we went coed. Muriel could never have handled that.”
“How long do you think he can keep the separation a secret?”
“Hard to say. Ordinarily, I’d say he’d have a month or two, but with Jared Phelps stirring the pot, who knows?”
“I’ve heard a little bit about him from Dinny, I think because he was concerned that I might run into him in the course of my duties. What do you think of Mr. Phelps?”
“A complete ass. Pompous, self-congratulatory ass.”
I laughed. “Don’t hold back, Rolly. Be sure to tell me what you really think.”
He forced a smile. “When he first came to Whitley, Jared was a decent teacher. Now, he’s a dangerous, unstable man who shouldn’t be anywhere near students, or anyone else for that matter. Don’t know how Hope stands him.”
“The girlfriend?”
“Yup. She’s a lovely person, down-to-earth, kind. What she sees in Jared, I’ll never know.”
“He was close to Carolyn Santos, wasn’t he?”
Rolly turned away, his eyes welling up. “Poor Carolyn. Still be alive today if it weren’t for him.”
“What do you mean? Did he have something to do with her death?”
“Not directly. Nothing you could pin on him, but he upset her whenever he could, the poor girl. That’s what Jared does. He gets inside people’s heads and works his poison. If he likes you, or you’re useful to him, he’s all over you, fawning and attentive. But cross him and watch out.”
“Were they good friends?”
“Yes, until about a year ago.”
“What happened?”
Rolly looked away, gathering himself up. When he turned back to me, he had his school face plastered on. “Who knows? It could have been one of a dozen things with Jared.”
“What kind of things?”
“Ricky, this is confidential faculty business. I really can’t, my dear. In fact, I’ve probably said too much already. You understand.”
“What about Missy Franklin? I hear she was close to Carolyn. Does that mean she’s close to Jared, too?”
“No.” He spit the word out. “I mean, probably not. She’s on the lacrosse team. Hope’s daughter is, too.”
“Are they friendly? Hope’s daughter and Missy?”
“Not really. Karen’s a sophomore and Missy’s a senior. Friendly as far as the team goes, I imagine. I’m sorry, my dear, but I’ve got to get to class. You’re welcome to stay, sit here on the porch, or go on inside and curl up on the couch. You look like you need a rest.”
“As a matter of fact, I’d love to close my eyes for a half hour or so, if it’s okay?”
Rolly ushered me into the living room. After forty years, it looked much as I remembered. Then, like Dinny and Brooke before him, Rolly practically ran out the door to get away from me.
CHAPTER 8
My half-hour snooze turned into an hour-long coma. Rolly’s couch felt like heaven after a night on the Breeze Bye torture bed. It was nearly three and I wanted to change before the lacrosse game, so I left a note of thanks and headed back to my car. I passed a number of students on my way, none of whom gave me so much as a glance
. I was one of the invisible people, a middle-aged stranger, part of the scenery like the statue of Elizabeth Whitley standing in the quad.
Upon my return, I found a skinny blonde teenager with pockmarked skin behind the front desk; Amanda Breeze was nowhere in sight. Despite the difference in their girth, I sensed a familial resemblance. When she spoke, I knew I’d hit the bull’s-eye.
“Hey, you must be 101. I’m Cindy. Mom says to tell you she moved you, personally to room 115. Did everything herself. Thought you’d want to know.”
I smiled. “That’s great. Tell her thanks when you see her.”
“She’s off till morning. I’m in charge.” She snapped her gum then blew a huge, very impressive bubble.
I stared, transfixed by her bubble-blowing dexterity until she noticed me, her eyes registering—lunatic. I gave myself a shake. “Has my friend, Lolly Pruit, checked in?”
“Not since I’ve been here. And there are still two keys in your box, so probably not.”
I changed, hoping to be on my way quickly before Lolly’s arrival. It would be easier to explain after the fact, why I felt compelled to run off to a lacrosse game instead of staying to chat. I left a message stating I’d be back by six and suggested she pick a restaurant. I should have made reservations, it being Reunion Weekend, but knowing Lolly, one phone call and we’d be in somewhere nice.
The afternoon breeze had kicked up and I was glad I’d brought along my Whitley School for Girls sweatshirt. The navy had grayed over the years, but the white letters W.S. were still bright and bold as ever. I certainly looked the part of a loyal alumna returning to campus decked out in the school colors.
By the time I parked beside the Field House and headed down the hill, the game had started. A men’s lacrosse game was loudly in progress on the adjacent field, with many more spectators on the sidelines. I was about to draw a conclusion about the lack of interest in women’s sports over men’s when I noticed the opposing team’s uniforms. The boys were playing Ashton, the day school one town away. Most of the crowd appeared to be Ashton parents, cheering their offspring as if they were engaged in a life-or-death struggle. The women were playing Vernon Prep, a school two hours north of Westfield, so their crowd was, quite appropriately, thinner.
Whitley had never taken day students. According to Brooke Richards, in recent years community pressure had been building for a change in that policy, but so far the Board had resisted. Somewhat wistfully, Brooke had indicated that it was “only a matter of time. After all, Ricky, let’s face it. We’re not Andover or Exeter. If we want the students, we’re going to have to be flexible.”
I had played softball at Whitley and all through college. The lacrosse program was in its infancy when I graduated from Whitley so it was right up there with rugby as one of the many sports I knew nothing about. As I strolled the sidelines, pretending to know what was happening, my eyes scanned the crowd and spotted a familiar face—Christine Parnell, still sporting her olive pantsuit, a cape now draped over her shoulders. She stood at midfield, engrossed in conversation with a man and woman. The woman, an attractive blonde, hair pulled back in a long braid, was dressed in blue jeans and a gray Whitley School sweatshirt. Considerably shorter than her companions, she looked uncomfortable and distracted by her companions’ conversation and kept turning away from them to watch the game. Finally, she stepped away and moved ten feet or so down the sidelines. Neither Christine nor the man noticed her departure.
Jared Phelps, I surmised, eyeing Christine’s companion out of the corner of my eye. Tall and lanky, Phelps looked like a teacher, his rumpled corduroy jacket with suede elbow patches the de facto uniform of the Mr. Chips crowd. He wore blue jeans and running shoes, expensive running shoes. I buy my running gear at factory outlets, but always try to keep up with the latest technology by flipping through my friend Phil’s back issues of Runner’s World. The shoes Phelps wore cost at least three hundred dollars. He was either a serious runner or wanted people to think he was. As he chatted with Christine, he gestured, pointed and waved his long arms. At regular intervals, he paused to run his fingers through his sandy hair or straighten his wire-rimmed glasses.
Eyes on the game, I sidled slowly in their direction, careful to keep my head straight ahead as my eyes peeked sideways. I had just come within earshot when Christine noticed me. “Oh, it’s you. Hello. Ms. Stone, isn’t it?”
Phelps turned, eyeing me curiously, a potential conquest all decked out in her Whitley School sweatshirt.
“Steele,” I said, stepping closer. “Ricky Steele. Please, call me Ricky.”
Milky blue eyes studied me from head to toe. “Where’d you come from?”
“You’re looking at my salvation, Jar. They’ve finally gotten someone to relieve me at Round House. Took long enough.”
It had been less than a week since Carolyn Santos’s death and I had a good mind to tell her what I thought of her callousness. However, I forced a smile and extended a hand to Jar. “You must be the infamous Mr. Phelps.” No sense beating around the bush.
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Careful, Jared. She’s cozy as hell with our fearless leader.”
“Is that a problem?”
“That depends on you, Ricky.” Smooth as silk, his voice caressed every syllable.
I shrugged, turning back to the game. “I’m here for my reunion.”
“How’d they rope you into the Round House gig?”
I hated it when adults or non-music types used the word “gig.” “As a loyal alumna with time on my hands, I volunteered.”
“Very noble of you.” He stepped closer, clearly one of those people with no conception of personal space. “What have you heard about me?” He was good-looking, I had to give him that, and under ordinary circumstances, just the kind of man to whom I would be instantly attracted—arrogant, conceited and full of himself.
“Let’s see. Haven’t heard much, really. Just that you left Whitley under less than happy circumstances.”
“I was fired.” He shook his head, underscoring the ludicrousness of anyone firing him. “What’d you say your last name was?” Something in his tone set off alarms.
“Wondering if I’m on your mailing list?”
He smirked. “Babe, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No one calls me ‘babe’ unless they want a swift kick in the shins.”
Raising his hands in mock protest, he laughed. “Sorry.”
“The last name’s Steele. My father’s name is—”
“Ralston Steele.” I had his attention now.
“Yes, that would be dad.” I smiled, slipping my sunglasses on as I turned back to the game.
“I hear he’s going to be around this weekend.”
“Yup.” I turned back, giving Jared the opportunity to study his reflection in my sunglasses. He took it, running his fingers through his hair and straightening his glasses.
“You’re someone I’d like to know better, Ms. Steele.”
“Oh, and why would that be?”
“I always appreciate a pretty lady.”
“Oh? I thought you were involved with someone?”
He sidled closer, drawing me away from Christine. “For a newcomer, you seem to know quite a bit about me. Been checking up on me?”
Christine nudged me. “Yes, he is involved with someone. Hope, come here. I have someone I’d like you to meet.”
Hope Seymour approached us, an open, trusting expression playing in her light brown eyes. “Sorry, I got caught up in the game and wandered off.” She looked from Christine to Jared to me.
Phelps drew her closer, sliding a protective arm around her shoulder. He was at least a foot taller and her head fit neatly in the crook of his underarm. “Hope, this is Ricky Steele—a Whitley alumna back to relive the glory days.”
“Hardly.” I stepped forward to shake her hand.
“Welcome back.” Her smile seemed genuine. “Must be fun to come back and relive all the
memories. Do you come for many reunions?”
“No, this is a first for me, my fortieth.”
“I was just telling Ricky that we’ll look forward to getting to know her better.”
Hope laughed, staring up at him. “Doesn’t give us much time. I’m sure Ricky has friends coming back.”
“Yes, I do. Two, actually. I’m having dinner with them tonight.”
“Then why are you standing around on a lacrosse field?” Christine said. “You’re not on duty yet, you know. Besides, house parents aren’t required to come to athletic events.”
I could have asked her the same question, although the reason for her presence was obvious. She hung on Phelps’s every word as if he were the Messiah. I turned to Hope. “I’m filling in as houseparent at Round House next week. Thought this might be a way to get to know some of the girls. I understand several team members live at Round House, including the missing girl, Missy Franklin.”
“That’s right.” Hope looked at Christine. “Has there been any word about poor Missy?”
“Not yet, but she’s fine, believe me. The kids know where she is. She’ll be back when she’s good and ready, the little brat.”
“Karen hasn’t said a thing.”
“She’s just a sophomore, probably doesn’t know anything, but her friends know. MacGregor and Maisie Grant know where she is. Langdon, too.”
“Is he her boyfriend, now, Chris? Karen doesn’t seem to know.”
“How the hell should I know? They don’t confide in me.”
What a surprise. “The team seems to miss Missy,” I observed as the opposing team scored yet another goal. “What position did she play?”
“Goalie,” Jared replied, eyes scanning the field. “Best goalie in New England.”
Christine shook her head. “I don’t know as I’d go that far. She’s good, but—”
“Chris, give it a rest. You couldn’t identify a decent goalie or any skilled lacrosse player if your life depended on it.”
Prepped to Kill (Ricky Steele Mysteries Book 1) Page 5
