* * *
Rachel Wooten called the meeting to order in her usual efficient and gracious way, bringing scattered conversations among the dozen or so gathered around the table to a halt. She motioned toward the coffeepot, cups, cream, and sugar, and then brought attention to Harry Garozzo’s cannolis, heaped high on a tray in the middle of the library table.
“It’s nice to have a deli owner’s brother on the staff,” she said. “Angelo handed these to me as I walked in. He said he thought it might sweeten us up.”
The comment brought smiles to some, but a frown to Blythe Westerland’s face, one that didn’t escape Nell, sitting opposite her at the table. Birdie noticed it, too, but ignored it. Instead she lifted up the tray, helped herself to a napkin, paper plate, and pastry, and passed it along to Elliott Danvers, sitting on her left.
“Consider me sweetened,” Elliott said, sliding two pastries onto a plate. “But don’t tell Laura. My wife has me training for a triathlon or some god awful thing. She’d nix the cannolis in favor of some atrocious green concoction she’d mix up in the blender.”
“Your secret’s safe with me, Danvers,” Barrett Mansfield said in his usual deep and serious voice. He took two for himself. “And mine with you, I hope.”
The image of the sedate Chelsey Mansfield and vivacious Laura Danvers sharing gossip about their men brought a smile to Nell’s face. It wouldn’t happen. They were both lovely, but as different from each other as some of the members of the school board, a fact that Nell appreciated. The Community School board was an odd mixture of Sea Harbor folks—prestigious and plain, young and old, and from different walks of life. She herself was an odd choice at first glance, having no children and not being a native of the small Atlantic coastal town. It wasn’t really a mystery, though. Her expertise in discovering grant money in obscure places was legendary. And money, of course, was often the overriding issue small schools faced—public and private—and especially those whose enrollment and endowment had seen a harsh decline over the last decade.
“It will be a short meeting tonight,” Rachel promised. “The agenda is on the table in front of you.”
Nell Endicott glanced down at the printed sheet. The elegant blue and gold school insignia appeared in the corner and below it, Rachel had carefully detailed the items for discussion.
Nothing unusual, except for the upcoming fall gala that Friday night. Rachel would be encouraging every board member to attend. And if they hadn’t done it already, there were still a few tables that could be purchased. There was that, the usual budget report, and a catch-up on repairs being done.
But it was the first item on the list that caught her attention. A single word.
Staff.
She looked around the table, noticing for the first time that Elizabeth Hartley was missing from the meeting. Surely she’d be the one discussing any staff matters.
Birdie noticed the headmistress’s absence at the same time, although the others’ attention seemed more focused on the cannolis than on who was there or not there.
“Blythe.” Rachel looked up from the paper, removing her glasses and looking down the table. “Since this first item was added at your request, I’ll let you take the floor.”
Nell watched a hint of displeasure flit across Rachel’s fine-boned face as she sat back down. She knew Rachel well. When she and Ben had moved permanently to Sea Harbor, Rachel and her husband, Don, were among their first friends. And when Don Wooten proved himself a worthy crew member on Sam and Ben’s prized sailboat, that friendship was solidified. Not to mention that he owned the Ocean’s Edge, one of their favorite Sea Harbor restaurants.
Rachel was gracious and smart—but never one to let anyone take her for granted. Nell suspected the sudden, undefined agenda item had been a surprise to the board chair—and she didn’t like it.
Blythe stood up, looking around the table and meeting each board member’s eye. She smiled. “I’m sorry this is sudden, but it was only recently brought to my attention and it’s something we should all be aware of. An incident occurred yesterday that is emblematic of school problems, not only on the faculty level but the administration level as well. If we want to be effective as a board, we need to look into these matters and make some pressing decisions, ones that will maintain its fine reputation and ensure the success of Sea Harbor Community Day School.”
Birdie lifted her small hand into the air and wiggled her fingers. “Excuse me, Blythe, but is this a discussion Dr. Hartley should be present for? I don’t believe she’s here yet.”
Rachel Wooten looked over at Elizabeth’s customary place and interrupted. “Of course, Birdie. I apologize. I hadn’t realized—” She looked down at her phone, checking messages, her frown deepening. “She should be here—”
“It’s all right, Rachel.” Blythe took a breath and began. “Dr. Hartley is one of the items we need to talk about. Specifically her administrative decisions and the way she is handling staff. It’s fortunate that she isn’t here. I wouldn’t want to upset her. One of the pressing matters is Dr. Hartley herself. We need to consider terminating her position as headmistress.” Although she addressed Rachel, and spoke to the whole board, her eyes kept traveling back to Barrett Mansfield. He met her eyes, his own dark and angry.
At that moment, the glass in one of the library’s heavy double doors rattled and Elizabeth Hartley pushed it open, walking into a silenced room. At first her walk was tentative, as if she wasn’t sure why everyone else was already seated. And then she walked more boldly past the display of new books and over to the table, filled now with cannoli crumbs and smudged agenda sheets.
“I’m sorry to be late. I must have misunderstood the message from my secretary. I thought Teresa said the meeting was going to begin later tonight.” She paused and looked around at the faces looking expectantly at her. “But a few minutes ago Angelo came by the office and mentioned that everyone was already here. He brought cannolis, he said.” A lighter tone came into her voice. But her expression was somber.
Rachel pushed away her own confusion and took charge. “That’s no problem, Elizabeth. I apologize for the misunderstanding. We were about to call you. Please sit, and if Elliott and Barrett haven’t eaten all the Garozzo pastries, help yourself to one of them.”
Elizabeth managed a smile. “Thank you, Rachel.”
Her voice was steady, but her hands, holding a brown notebook, were shaking slightly and the tension that had entered the room with the headmistress now hovered over the library table.
Blythe was still standing, her eyes on Elizabeth and her expression unreadable.
“Blythe?” Rachel said.
Nell looked over at Birdie. They read the tone in Rachel’s voice instantly, the same authoritative one that made her a successful attorney and advocate of the city. Her diplomacy was masterful and the tone that coated her single word was urging Blythe Westerland to sit down.
But it was Esther Gibson who saved the moment. The ageless police dispatcher put her ever-present knitting down, pushed her ample frame to a standing position, and suggested that Rachel fill them in on details of the weekend gala for the foundation before discussing anything else. She was on the night shift, she said, and might have to leave early if tonight’s meeting went too long. She smiled broadly, and the lines fanning out from her clear blue eyes deepened. “Frankly, it’s the only thing on the agenda that interests me tonight.”
She nodded sweetly to Blythe and then sat back down, folding her hands on the table and waiting for her wish to be granted.
Relief spread across Rachel’s face as she thanked Esther for the suggestion, shuffled the papers in front of her, then looked again at Blythe. “It looks like this keeps you standing, Blythe. As the board liaison for the event, you’ll want to relate the memo I received today from the organizer, I presume.”
Blythe took the sheet Rachel handed her, scanned the report, dr
opped it on the table, and took in her audience. “Laura Danvers”—she nodded at Laura’s husband, Elliott—“has done an excellent job of putting the evening together. It’s been my pleasure to help her at every turn.” She went on to detail the festivities, music by a student jazz band, and tours of the school and property. But the pièce de résistance of the evening would be the multiple small courses served to the guests, all created by Sea Harbor’s finest chefs and accompanied by champagne and fine wine. She added her expectation that each board member take it upon him- or herself to mingle and greet and direct interested donors to one of the foundation’s funds. “Laura and I promise the evening will not only be thoroughly entertaining but, most important, will fill the foundation’s coffers nicely. Music to all our ears and especially to yours,” she said, looking at the headmistress. “Would you like to add anything, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth didn’t meet the look thrown at her, the friendly tone as if she and Blythe were close confidantes, good friends. Instead she spoke to the rest of the board. “It’ll be a wonderful evening, and I’m grateful to Laura for the time she has given to this. The whole town seems to have an investment in Sea Harbor Community Day School, wanting it to thrive. And that’s quite wonderful.”
Birdie sat straight and smiled at the administrator. “You’ve done a great deal to foster that, Elizabeth. Using foundation money to connect with the community and help other groups has gone a long way in generating the goodwill. You are putting this grand institution back on the map but in a new and interesting way.”
“My sentiments exactly,” Barrett Mansfield said, his baritone voice filling the room.
Blythe stared at him again, a frown threatening to mar her smooth forehead, then disappearing as she sat back down and picked up the agenda sheet.
There was a shuffling of papers and murmurs of approval as coffee cups were refilled. Rachel glanced at the agenda sheet once more, then began passing out the treasurer’s report, ignoring the lead item on the agenda.
Nell felt the emotion before she looked up and saw the clouds gathering in Blythe Westerland’s face. Without looking across the table, she could feel Blythe’s displeasure. She was being overlooked, her voice silenced, something that she wouldn’t accept easily.
Before Nell could get Rachel’s attention, Blythe pushed back her chair and stood again, her hands flat on the varnished table and her eyes moving deliberately from one person to the next until the murmurs fell away and a heavy silence filled the library.
“Thank you for your attention,” she said. “I have a few things we need to address and I’d like to do it now before anyone else has to leave.”
The single agenda item hung in the air. Staff. Nell had the peculiar sensation that if she looked up, she’d see the word blinking in neon lights. She looked across the table at Elizabeth. Her face was expressionless. She turned her head and looked at Blythe, waiting, almost as if she knew what was about to occur.
“As most of you know, Josh Babson was fired Monday,” Blythe began, then paused for effect as she looked around the table again. “A move most of us recommended to Dr. Hartley.”
The group was silent, waiting. Esther Gibson thrummed her plump fingers on the table. Birdie took off her glasses and rubbed imaginary smudges from them with the sleeve of her sweater.
Anticipation. Where was Blythe going with this?
They all knew Josh was going to be fired, because Blythe had filled the library table the month before with reason after reason for his dismissal. But it shouldn’t be news tonight. Except for the announcement, perhaps, that the artist had, in fact, been fired. An action a few on the board thought unfounded and a few others, those who often missed meetings, didn’t know enough about to have an opinion on. But Blythe had a powerful voice. And name.
Blythe took a drink of water, then continued with a dramatic description of the art instructor’s dismissal, something she hadn’t personally been privy to, but somehow knew several details that made Elizabeth cringe.
She went on to say that proof of the inept firing was in the actions taken by the art teacher after Elizabeth had “let him go.” An action she categorized as an act of “violence,” obviously motivated by the way the firing was handled.
The last words were said with such vitriol that Elizabeth winced. Members of the board stared at Blythe, some leaning forward in their chairs, waiting for the worst-case scenario: had the firing so badly destroyed Josh Babson that he had hurt himself? Or worse?
“With wanton abandon,” Blythe went on, “Mr. Babson sprayed the school’s lawn vividly with yellow paint, showing his anguish for the whole town to see.” She elaborated on the color, the swirls, and the deadly look Josh had thrown up at Dr. Hartley’s office where Elizabeth had been standing in the window. A look she herself had witnessed, she added.
There was a collective sigh of relief. Josh Babson was alive.
Blythe then once again boiled the entire episode down to Dr. Hartley’s inefficient handling of the termination, just one of many examples of her inability to be headmistress of the Sea Harbor school.
“I am sorry to discuss this in front of you, Elizabeth,” she said in the same gracious tone she might have used to compliment the headmistress on her dress. “But it needs to be said. I had hoped to do it before you arrived, but that didn’t happen.”
Elizabeth was silent. The message she had received from her secretary was now clear to all of them. Blythe had arranged it.
“My daughter liked Babson,” Barrett Mansfield said. “And frankly, if I had my way, he wouldn’t have been fired in the first place. So be it. But you can’t expect the man to jump up and down with joy at losing his job no matter how it was done. Maybe his reaction was childish, but after all, he was an artist—using paint to show his displeasure might have been better than other options. Clever, actually.” He followed his words with a slight smile, an attempt to make a point and lighten the mood at the same time.
“You’re missing the point,” Blythe said. “We need to pay attention to how the situation was handled. It was handled terribly, which was why the teacher reacted so badly. And it’s simply another instance in a long list of things that need to be corrected. We need an administrator here who knows who to hire and how to treat staff once they are hired. We need someone at the helm who isn’t pouring money into scholarships for kids who shouldn’t be at this school anyway. We need a headmistress who maintains the integrity of not only the school but the home my great-grandfather raised his family in. We need to clean house.”
It was the first time Nell had seen Blythe Westerland visibly emotional. It wasn’t that they hadn’t had contentious discussions at board meetings, but Blythe always managed to hold her emotions intact, arguing calmly—almost too calmly, Birdie had once observed. But not tonight.
Rachel stood and looked at Blythe, then the rest of the board. “This meeting is over,” she said. She spoke in the same controlled voice she had probably used in countless court battles. “Please review the treasurer’s report, and the last item about repairs to the old boathouse will be discussed at the next meeting. Your concerns will all be considered, Blythe, and discussed once we have something to discuss. Good night, everyone.” She managed a smile and began placing her papers in a leather attaché case.
Several others stood and began to gather up the empty cups, relieved to be going home early. Low conversations here and there attempted to cover the unpleasant and awkward silence.
Birdie walked over to Elizabeth. She complimented her on a new social services project Gabby was involved in. “You are teaching students to be kind to others. The greatest learning of all.”
Around the table chairs squeaked on the hardwood floor, keys rattled, and good-byes floated on the library air.
Blythe Westerland remained at her place, her bag in her hand. Her composure had returned and she smiled at several people around her, wishing them
a good night and a safe drive home.
Finally she walked around the table, toward the spot where Birdie and Elizabeth stood.
Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, but Blythe walked by as if she hadn’t seen her. Instead she followed Barrett Mansfield toward the door, passed him, then spun around, blocking him in his tracks.
The tall business owner was digging in his pocket for car keys with one hand, holding his cell phone to his ear with the other. He looked at her, puzzled. Then he pulled his eyebrows together and slipped his phone into his pocket. “Blythe, if you’ve a beef with me because of that . . . incident . . . don’t take it out on the board or Elizabeth or anyone else. What are you trying to do here?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Blythe’s voice was controlled, clear and concise—and audible in the now quiet library. She continued. “This is your fault. You hired her for your own selfish reasons.” It was the voice one used to explain an obvious fact to someone who didn’t quite understand, a child perhaps. “It’s not a kind thing you did in pushing the board to hire her. Not for anyone, and especially not for your daughter. She has learning and social problems, and she should be in a place that specializes in that, not here in my school. You’ve taken advantage of me, Barrett. People need to know that. You’ll regret this, mark my words.”
Without allowing time for a response, Blythe turned and walked away from the formidable board member. Her pace was steady and her form graceful, and she never looked back, not once, missing the flush of anger that moved up Barrett Mansfield’s neck until it covered his whole face. A vein pulsed in his temple.
Only the three women standing back at the board table—Birdie, Nell, and Elizabeth Hartley—saw his clenched fist. It was squeezed so tightly around a set of car keys that they were sure to leave a permanent imprint in his palm. The anger in his narrowed eyes spoke louder than words.
Blythe is wrong, his eyes said. He wasn’t the one who would regret this encounter.
A Finely Knit Murder Page 5
