He slowed down as he approached the Devereaux house, then edged the car over to the curb. The wrought-iron gate had been closed, sealing off the driveway, but to its left Frank could see a small hinged entrance gate. When he pushed against it, it opened immediately, and he walked into the grounds.
As he walked slowly up the graveled driveway, he could see the house very clearly. All the lights were out, but its outer walls glowed softly white in the full moon. For a while he stood beneath a large oak and watched the house. He could see no movement at all behind the darkened windows, and after a while he turned quietly to leave.
But suddenly the front door opened, and Karen walked out onto the grounds. She was dressed in a white blouse and long white skirt, as if she had decided to embrace the opposite of mourning. There was a single white ribbon in her hair, and the wind lifted it gently as he stepped out of the shadows and walked toward her.
She saw him instantly, and there was enough light for him to tell that her face did not change when she saw him. She stood very still, her arms at her sides, and waited as he neared her.
“The gate was open,” he said.
“Yes,” Karen said. She moved a few paces to the right, toward an enormous spray of summer roses. Their red petals had curled tightly for the night. She took one of them in her hand. “My father planted these for Angelica,” she said. She pointed toward another bush of white roses. “And he planted that one for me.” She looked at him closely. “Why are you here?”
“I’m not sure,” Frank said. “I went for a drive. I ended up here.”
“And the gate was open, as you said.”
“Yes.”
“I have a telephone, Mr. Clemons.”
“I know I should have called.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t want to,” Frank said.
He waited for her to answer back, perhaps insult him. But she didn’t. Instead there was just silence, without so much as a whisper of wind.
“I went to see Arthur Cummings today,” Frank said finally.
“About the trust fund?”
“About that, and about Angelica.”
“You won’t learn anything from him,” Karen said dryly. She released the flower and it sprang from her hand. “Why did you come here?” she asked again.
For a moment, Frank tried to come up with an answer that would satisfy her, something that would make sense either to her or to Brickman when she complained about him the next day.
“The portrait,” he said at last, “the one you painted of your sister.”
“The one in Cummings’ office?”
“Yes,” Frank said. “When did you paint it?”
“When she was eight years old.”
“And so you were …”
“Twenty-two,” Karen said immediately. She took a slow, hesitant step into the darkness, like one testing the water of a pool. “Twenty-two,” she repeated. She moved again, this time slightly backward, and fixed her gaze on the lush summer grounds. “We used to play here,” she said, “the two of us.” She looked at him. “All those childhood games. I can look over there and remember tying her up, Indian-style.” She nodded to the right. “And under that tree was where they set up the buffet at her third birthday party.” She laughed quietly. “My father loved to do that sort of thing, throw a grand party.” She shook her head. “Some people look for money, and some people look for ways to spend it. My father loved to see money flow away from him, rivers of money into the arts, schools, all sorts of things.” She drew in a long, slow breath. “I think it was his way of being good. It was probably the only way he knew to be good.”
“Was he good to Angelica?” Frank asked.
“Yes, he was. And he was good to me, and to Mother.”
Frank resisted the impulse to pull out his notebook. “Angelica’s face, the one in the portrait.” He stopped, waited, then let it drop. “The eyes.”
He could see a little shiver of emotion run through her body, then gather in her face.
“You noticed them?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She smiled. “You’re the first.”
“I don’t believe that.”
She looked at him as if he had insulted her. “I don’t lie, Mr. Clemons.” Her eyes settled on him thoughtfully. “And to tell you the truth, I’m surprised you noticed.” She shrugged. “Some people have commented that the painting seems a little odd. But no one has ever realized that it’s all in the eyes.”
“They’re dead,” Frank said.
“Yes, they are.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” Karen replied. Her eyes swept over him. “The most I can say is that somehow I expected something terrible to happen to Angelica. When our parents died, I thought that that was it, the terrible thing. Then, later on, I knew that it wasn’t.”
“So you weren’t surprised by her death.”
“No,” Karen said.
“But if you—”
“We have a garden in the back,” Karen interrupted. “Do you like gardens?”
“I don’t know much about them.”
“You don’t have to,” Karen said. She smiled delicately. “I’m glad you came tonight. I guess you can understand that. I never thought it would feel this odd.”
“What?”
“To be absolutely alone.”
Frank nodded. “I’d like to see the garden,” he said.
“Good,” Karen said. “Come with me.”
He followed her around the side of the house to where the garden swept out before them, wet and gleaming in the evening dew. It was softly illuminated by small, bluish floodlights. There was a circular marble fountain, and here and there assorted pieces of statuary rose from flowerbeds or peeped over slender walls of carefully manicured hedge. It was beautiful, and for a moment Frank found himself oddly moved by it, as if the garden were a beguiling vision of an order and a contentment that were beyond his own grasp.
“We don’t cultivate anything that’s really exotic,” Karen explained. “The demanding ones just require too much.” She glanced at Frank. “Only the really hearty ones can make it on their own.”
“Do you have a greenhouse?” Frank asked.
“No. Only the garden.”
“Did Angelica like the garden?”
Karen’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t ever forget where you are or what you’re doing, do you?”
Frank felt himself bristle slightly. “There aren’t too many things worth doing,” he said.
She turned away from him. “Well, do you like the garden?”
“It’s all right.”
“So you don’t like it?”
“It’s nice,” Frank said.
“What do you like, Mr. Clemons?”
“The streets.”
“Why?”
“They’re not like this,” Frank said, nodding toward the garden. “They’re not controlled.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe I think that once in a while everybody ought to have to put everything on the line. Maybe that’s why I like the streets.”
“Violence, you mean?”
“If it comes to that.”
“But violence doesn’t solve things, does it?”
“I’ve seen it solve a few.”
She waited a moment, as if considering her next question.
“Was Angelica murdered?” she asked finally.
“I think so,” Frank told her.
“Yes,” Karen whispered. She shivered slightly, despite the warm, musty air that surrounded them. “I think I’d better go in, now.”
Together, they walked back around the house.
“That’s Angelica’s room,” Karen said. She pointed to a single dark rectangle. “She always kept the shade drawn.”
“I’ll have to go through it sometime,” Frank told her. “Is tomorrow all right?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll be here all day.
”
Karen walked up the steps, then turned back toward him. “Go ahead,” she told him. “I’ll wait until you’re gone.”
It seemed an odd request, but Frank did not hesitate to honor it. As he walked toward his car, he knew that she was watching him, but he did not know why. And yet, he believed that he had somehow managed to break through to her. He could feel her eyes upon him as he walked away, and he knew that there was no hostility in them. He could feel some sort of line uniting them, one that stretched beyond the approaching gate, and farther still, to the other side of the city where the streets still clung to their anger, and his room waited for him like a lonely child.
10
It was almost nine the next morning when Frank arrived at Northfield Academy. It was located only a few miles from Angelica’s house, and its grounds were shaded by similarly elegant trees. A rich summer greenness swept out all around the few buildings that dotted the campus; their exteriors looked as if they’d been designed to remind students of the glory that was Greece. The main building was larger than the rest, and its tall, Doric columns looked down upon a wide, cobblestone driveway.
The summer session had already begun, and Frank made his way toward the building through a steady stream of students. They were very well dressed in the latest teenage fashions, and in their midst, Frank felt like some bit of flotsam that had somehow managed to enter a bright, shimmering stream.
The crowds of young people thickened as he entered the building. They flowed around him in all directions, glancing at him indifferently and continuing their own daily routines. But one of them finally took pity and stopped in front of him.
“You look lost,” she said.
“I am.”
The girl smiled cheerfully. “Maybe I can help you.”
“I’m looking for the headmaster’s office.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” the girl said brightly. “Just go straight down this hallway. It’s the last door on your right.”
“Thanks,” Frank said, and did as she had told him.
A single desk confronted him as he went through the door. A well-dressed middle-aged woman sat behind it. A short, slightly overweight man in gold-rimmed glasses stood over her, pointing something out in a letter. “Just change that one line,” he said, “and then get it out right away. Mr. Douglas has been expecting it for a while.” He laughed lightly. “I think we’ve sunk the hook in pretty deep on this one, and it’s time to reel it in.”
The two of them laughed conspiratorially, then the man looked up at Frank.
“May I help you?” he asked.
Frank pulled out his badge. “Frank Clemons,” he said.
The man’s face whitened. “Oh, yes, so sad,” he said. “Please come in.” He hustled Frank into an adjoining office and quickly closed the door. “The other detective said you’d be coming by. I can’t tell you how sorry we all are about Angelica.”
Frank took out his notebook. “Of course,” he said.
“There’s some talk of a memorial gift, actually,” the man said.
“You’re Albert Morrison, right?” Frank asked. “The headmaster?”
“That’s correct,” Morrison told him. “And as I was saying, a memorial gift has been discussed. Arthur Cummings has expressed an interest.”
Frank looked up. “You know Cummings?”
“Of course. He’s one of the trustees of the Academy.”
Frank wrote it down.
“And of course,” Morrison went on, “he’s very interested that the school be protected.”
“Protected? From what?”
“Well, to use an old Victorian word, scandal,” Morrison said. “I mean, she had been a student here. As you know, she was a member of the senior class. She only graduated a few weeks ago.” He smiled thinly. “One other thing, I want you to know that Northfield will cooperate fully with your investigation. After all, we consider every student, whether past or present, to be a member of our extended family.”
“When did Angelica graduate?”
“June first.”
Frank wrote it down.
“On the grounds of the Academy,” Morrison added. “That’s been our tradition.”
“How old is the school?”
“Fifteen years old,” Morrison said. “Angelica was a good student here. Her death is a tragic loss for the entire community of Northfield. I do think a memorial gift would be appropriate. I was thinking of a flagstaff, or, if the donations warrant it, perhaps even a new addition to the theater.”
“How many students were in her graduating class?” Frank asked.
“Twenty-five,” Morrison said. “It was a beautiful ceremony. We had a string ensemble. They played Mozart.”
Frank nodded dully. To celebrate his own graduation, he and a few of his classmates had bought an old car and pushed it off a cliff. It seemed now to have fallen as quickly and resoundingly as their own ambitions.
“How well did you know Angelica?” he asked.
“I try to know all the students here. And I mean more than just their names.”
“How well did you know Angelica?”
Morrison seemed lost in thought. “She was very beautiful.”
“How well did you know her, Mr. Morrison?” Frank asked, this time with a slight edge in his voice.
“Well, less than most,” Morrison admitted. “Less than any, if you want to know the truth. She was not a terribly approachable human being.”
“Did she have many friends at the school?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Well, did you ever see her with other students?”
“Rarely.”
“But sometimes?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Who were they?”
Morrison hesitated. “You mean, the names?”
“Yes.”
“What would you do with them?”
“I’d look them up in your little student directory,” Frank told him coolly, “and then I’d go talk to them.”
“That could be embarrassing.”
“One of their friends is dead,” Frank reminded him. He waited for this to sink in. Then he fired again. “She was pregnant, did you know that?”
Morrison winced. “Yes.”
“How?”
“Arthur told me,” Morrison said. “He felt Northfield should be warned.”
“About six weeks pregnant,” Frank said, “which would mean that she was pregnant at her graduation.”
Morrison’s eyes lowered mournfully. “Yes, of course.”
Frank leaned forward slightly. “Do you have any idea who the father might have been?”
“None at all,” Morrison said. He shook his head worriedly. “One incident like this can have a terrible effect upon a school like Northfield.” His lips curled downward. “All you need is one rotten apple.”
“Is that how you thought of Angelica?”
Morrison looked like a child who’d been caught using bad language. “Well, no,” he sputtered, “of course not. I mean, she was very—”
“Beautiful, yes,” Frank interrupted. “What else?”
“Odd, that’s all.”
“In what way?”
“She didn’t participate in school activities very much,” Morrison said. “We stress community life at Northfield. We like joiners.”
“And Angelica wasn’t one?”
“Hardly,” Morrison said with barely concealed disapproval. “She was very much to herself most of the time. I don’t think she ever attended a school dance, or any other school function for that matter.” He thought a moment, and something caught in his mind. “Except one.”
“Which was?”
“The senior play,” Morrison said. “She was in the senior play.”
“When was that?”
“You’d have to ask Mr. Jameson; he directed it.”
“Where could I find him?”
“He’s probably in the theater right now,” Morrison said. “We do have
a summer theater program.”
Frank wrote it all down.
“She was quite good, actually,” Morrison added. “Everyone was impressed.” He shook his head. “I do wish we could have helped her more.”
“In what?”
“In life,” Morrison said. “When you teach children, you realize how unprepared they are for life.” He smiled gently. “We send them into a wilderness, Mister …”
“Clemons.”
“Mr. Clemons, yes. We do the best we can, but it’s not always enough.”
“Would you say that Angelica was withdrawn, moody, anything like that?” Frank asked.
“From the life of this campus,” Morrison said. “She was very withdrawn from that. Perhaps she had something else. Other people who were pulling her away from us.”
“Toward the Southside?” Frank asked.
“Well, that’s where she was found, after all.”
“How did you know that?”
“It was in the paper,” Morrison said. He took a folded newspaper from the table behind his desk and handed it to Frank. “See?”
Frank opened the paper. Angelica’s Northfield photograph stared up at him from the front page.
“She should have been in the paper,” Morrison said, “but not like this. As an actress, perhaps, or something else equally meaningful.” He shook his head. “But not this.”
Frank handed the newspaper back to him.
Morrison glanced at it again, then allowed his eyes to drift toward one of the Civil War portraits that hung on the opposite wall. It seemed to calm him, as if he had discovered something sweet and beautiful within it which the hectic world of upper-class education could not give him.
“I believe in tradition, Mr. Clemons,” he said, finally. “I don’t believe I should have to apologize for that.” He looked back toward Frank. “When I think of Angelica, I think of someone who was drifting, who had no traditions to stand on.”
“Maybe she didn’t like them,” Frank said.
“Of course, that’s possible.”
“Why did she go to this school?”
“It was not her choice.”
“Whose was it?”
“Arthur Cummings chose the school.”
“He made her go here?”
“He administered her trust fund,” Morrison said. “Part of it was allocated for Angelica’s education. Arthur elected to spend that money at Northfield.”
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