Died With a Bow

by Grace Carroll

  “I’m sure you’ll work them out,” I said. I had no idea what Amadeus was about, but I thought it was safe to say that Harrington would solve the problems of putting on the play, or why choose the play in the first place? “Though it is an ambitious choice,” I added hopefully.

  “Maybe too ambitious,” he said. “For starters, the girl playing Mozart’s wife comes across as a giggling high school junior instead of a frightened and bitter wife. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t tackled a musical again. Or if I had to do a musical, why not pick Rent?”

  Now there was a musical I’d heard of. “But isn’t Rent about sex, drugs and criminals?” I asked.

  “You’ve just described high school,” he said with a laugh. “Unfortunately, the head of school is a Mozart fan, which is the real reason we’re doing Amadeus. He insisted his son get the role of Salieri. I’m afraid this kid is going to terrify the audience instead of impress them with his over-the-top performance. His loud outbursts make me wonder if he might really be crazy. If you ask me, he’s a bona fide psycho and shouldn’t even be here at Prep, but that’s how it goes when your father pulls the strings. You’ll get a chance to see for yourself if you stay for rehearsal.”

  “I’d love to,” I said, “but I’ll have to hurry back to work. In any case, I’ll see you at noon.”

  I couldn’t believe all the trouble I had to go to to get those damn yearbooks, and for what? So I could pore over the books hoping something, a picture, a blurb under someone’s photo would turn on a lightbulb and there’d be an “aha” moment when all would be clear? Yes, actually, I thought, reassuring myself. Yes, because then I’d know who killed Vienna, and I’d finally get credit for solving the crime. And then we could all go back to work. Faking my way through lunch with Harrington and suffering through a bit of his WIP would be worth it if I walked out with the yearbooks.

  When I got to work, Dolce gushed about my party, saying that William had such a good time he’d invited her to take a spin in his Learjet next Sunday to Southern California. It was wonderful to see her back to normal, even better than normal as she seemed to glide smoothly around the shop, wearing a gray, figure-hugging Carolina Herrera dress, which I thought I’d seen in a photo of Carla Bruni, the former model and first lady of France. I was a little surprised by her choice, but this was a new Dolce, one who took chances, one who was dressing for someone besides her customers, and I was glad to see it. I watched her greeting old and new customers with good cheer. I didn’t ask her if she’d had to lie about her actions on the night of Vienna’s murder. I didn’t want to know.

  After a morning of helping customers find the right sexy gown or leather jacket or flouncy skirt, I told Dolce I had some errands to do on my lunch hour. She told me to take my time and didn’t ask where I was going. Did her laissez-faire attitude have anything to do with her ongoing connection to William? I hoped so. She also surprised me by saying, “I’m thinking of closing the shop on Mondays. We’re never that busy, and I think we deserve two days off like everyone else. What do you think?”

  A two-day weekend? Closing the shop on Mondays? Maybe she’d gotten the idea when I took Saturday off and left her to cope on her own. What was the world coming to? I couldn’t help thinking it had something to do with William. He was retired and probably had weekends and lots of other days off. But Dolce only had Sundays off. That’s all she’d ever wanted, but that was before William came into her life. I didn’t ask about his divorce.

  “I think it’s a great idea,” I said. As long as I didn’t have to take a pay cut. And I could take an occasional Saturday off too when I had a big date that night. Although maybe that was just wishful thinking.

  I took the bus to Pacific Heights and walked down the street past the mansions of the rich and powerful to the school where the rich and powerful sent their kids, like Vienna, and the less-than-wealthy sent their scholarship students, like Vienna’s poor and needy roommate, Danielle. It was a far cry from my public high school in Ohio with its tired old teachers, its peeling paint and the Friday night football games. The original school building had once been a stately home owned by some gold rush baron, who donated it to the city to educate the youth. It didn’t survive the 1906 earthquake, but the rebuilt structure that had stood in its place for over a hundred years was still the school of choice for those who were lucky enough to get in.

  Maybe it had always been a school for the city’s entitled youth. All I knew was that it was difficult to get admitted even if you had the money for the tuition. You had to be smart too. What I didn’t know until today was that the parking lot was full of high-end expensive cars.

  Had Lex ever actually given Vienna that car he promised her, and if so, where was it? Or had Bobbi put the kibosh on that plan and Vienna had no car? If she had one, why hadn’t she driven it to work? The answer had to be that it was hard to park near Dolce’s. Even our customers took taxis or had their chauffeurs drop them off.

  Standing at the wide glass front door, I glanced up at the flag flying over the school at half-mast. I frowned. Could it be for Vienna? After I walked in, I followed the signs to the office. There, a stern-looking woman with dark hair and a sort of uniform consisting of a white long-sleeved shirt, a navy vest, a pleated skirt and low-heeled shoes asked if she could help me.

  I suddenly realized that the kids wore uniforms at the school and in my teen outfit I wouldn’t fit in anyway. Why hadn’t I thought this through and dressed like a wealthy matron? Oh well. I was expected.

  “I’m here to see Harrington Harris,” I said. “He’s expecting me.”

  She sighed loudly, as if he had women dropping in every few minutes, which I didn’t believe for a minute. Parents might drop in to make sure their kids were given parts in the plays, but did I look like a parent? I hoped not. She finally picked up a phone and spoke into it. “Visitor for Harris,” she said. “Harris, visitor in Admin.”

  While I was waiting, I looked around, wondering if I’d see a Dolce’s customer among the teachers—or more likely, a parent here to have a teacher conference. I was desperate to keep my real reason for my visit under my hat.

  Some of the students who walked down the hall were wearing regulation skorts, which would be more practical out on the playing field across town in Golden Gate Park. Not enough level ground for a playing field here among the mansions on the hill. Prep was known not only for its academics but also for its soccer team. The boys I saw in the hall wore button-down shirts and green ties, green being the school color, I assumed.

  Still waiting, I took a look at the trophies in a glass case. Not only trophies but also artifacts from another era. There was a shovel used to dig for the gold that had ultimately enabled one of the gold barons to endow this school. There was a rough wooden stool that was one of many that the early students of this institution sat on while being instructed in the basics of math and English and manners.

  What if I’d gone to school here? Would my life be different? Would I, like other alums, have gone on to an Ivy League college? Would I now be working as a high-end marketing guru for someone like Helmut Lang or Kate Spade instead of selling clothes in a small boutique on the West Coast? Or would I be married to a fellow student who was now making millions in real estate or investment banking?

  I might live in this rarified neighborhood, send my kids to this school, shop at Dolce’s, have lunch with the other ladies who lunch at the rotunda at Neiman Marcus with its fifteen-dollar cheeseburgers and spectacular view of Union Square. Yes, that sounded like me. Or did it?

  One thing I knew I’d love would be to admire the famous stained-glass skylight Neiman Marcus is famous for. But I could do that now. I didn’t need a husband or a new job, just a lunch date. I made a mental note to put it on my to-do list along with the classes I was going to take, the ride-along program at the police department, the swim across the Bay and more cooking classes.

  “Rita,” Harrington said, startling me out of my reverie by kissing me on both cheeks. “Go
od to see you. You’ve saved me from a disaster.”

  “What do you mean?” I couldn’t face another disaster.

  “It’s too awful to talk about,” he said. But he did talk about it for at least fifteen minutes while we sat on a bench in the foyer of the high school as my precious lunch hour ticked away and I hadn’t had even a glimpse of the yearbooks.

  “First my lead, the guy who plays Mozart, is out this week. The official story is he’s got the flu, but you know what? He’s probably at the family’s ski house at Tahoe. Spring skiing. Why not? What does he have to lose? I’m the one whose reputation is on the line. Then the costume department, which consists of volunteer parents, is upset because the girls don’t like their costumes. They don’t think they’re sexy enough. Like they have a say in it?” He paused and shook his head. “Come on, let’s have lunch. You don’t want to hear any more of my troubles.”

  He was right, I sure didn’t. I tried not to leap up from the bench, but I was anxious to get on with it. Eat lunch and get those yearbooks. I’d already been here for twenty minutes and I hadn’t even asked him where they were or if I could have them.

  The cafeteria was practically deserted despite the attractive display of healthy choices.

  “Too healthy for the kids,” Harrington explained once again as he loaded his tray with a turkey sandwich on whole wheat bread, a fruit salad and an iced tea. I followed his lead and got the same things. He waved me on through past the student checker, saying I was his guest so I didn’t have to pay.

  I ate my sandwich and told myself to get on with it. Ask him about the yearbooks. Why not? Otherwise I could be stumbling around this campus forever and end up being arrested for stealing a yearbook. I could just imagine what Detective Wall would say when he was called to the school after a robbery complaint and had to slap a pair of handcuffs on me.

  “I wonder if you know where the old yearbooks are kept and if I could borrow a few to show my friend, the one who’s looking for a good high school,” I said.

  “How old? I’ve got some in my office.”

  “Four or five years ago.”

  “That old? Why not take last year’s book?”

  “Of course, last year’s and a couple of older ones.”

  “No problem.”

  “Good, that sounds great.” I couldn’t believe how simple it was. Why hadn’t I just walked in and asked for them? They say there’s no such thing as a free lunch, but I’d just gotten one—along with what I really wanted: the yearbook that might unlock the mystery of the murder of Vienna Fairchild.

  “By the way,” I said as he handed me two yearbooks from a shelf in his office, “how come the flag’s at half-mast?”

  “Didn’t you hear? One of our alums died last week. Finally got what was coming to her—that’s what they say anyway.”

  “You mean she had enemies?” I asked, wide-eyed.

  “You didn’t hear it from me, but so goes the rumor mill. Yeah, it was one of her classmates who did her in. No big surprise. You know how teenagers are. They never forget. Hold grudges like you wouldn’t believe. These girls are long gone from Prep, but once a Preppie, always a Preppie.” He sighed dramatically. “I don’t suppose you remember the good old days in high school.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that remark. As if I looked like I was too old to remember. Even in my carefully chosen teen-type clothes and hair.

  “You mean someone knows who did it?” I asked, holding my breath.

  “No names, no names. Just someone who finally confronted her for being a bitch and let her have it. But what do I know? I don’t listen to gossip,” he said.

  I’ll bet you don’t, I thought.

  “I’m not surprised. There are cliques, there are catfights, there’s angst and anger, jealousy and hate. Oh, yes, it’s a regular TV drama, only it’s for real. Never a dull moment,” he said with a smile. You might almost think he enjoyed the drama. Why not? Drama was his field.

  Fourteen

  A scant five minutes later I was walking down the street with two yearbooks under my arm. I was dying to go through them and zero in on Vienna’s killer, obviously a girl in her class like Danielle who had a grudge against her, who’d had a run-in with her or whose boyfriend Vienna had stolen. Or a guy Vienna had cheated on. Or someone whom she’d cheated off of. The possibilities were so numerous I was almost skipping down the street, I was so excited.

  The downside to my euphoria was that Jack had these same yearbooks and he was poring over them looking for the same clues I was. Of course, what did it matter if he found the killer before I did? Sure, I wanted the credit, but most of all I wanted the cloud of suspicion to be lifted from over my head.

  Once on the bus, I leafed rapidly through the pages. I turned to the index where “Fairchild, Vienna” had several references. One was her graduation picture. She was dressed in some kind of drape, which I didn’t recognize. It was probably provided by the photographer. She was looking over her shoulder with a provocative smile I did recognize.

  I was surprised she wasn’t wearing a designer dress, but maybe she wasn’t such a fashionista in those days. And under her picture was a quotation she’d chosen: “‘One must have a good memory to be able to keep the promises one makes.’—Friedrich Nietzsche.”

  What did that mean? That Vienna had made promises, but she couldn’t remember what they were? Or she remembered but would use her poor memory as an excuse not to keep them?

  Under the quotation was a list of her activities. “Spring Fling Princess, Senior Class VP, Cheerleading Squad, Girls’ Acapella Chorus, Asian Appreciation Club.” Nothing surprising except for that Asian Appreciation Club, one I would have joined if only to appreciate the Asian food I was sure they’d serve at their meetings. But why did Vienna join? Did she have an Asian boyfriend at the time? Did she still have one, and if so, who was he?

  I looked to see what others had chosen. Here was her friend, a disgruntled-looking Emery, staring not at the photographer but off into the distance. His quote: “‘Nothing is too small to know and nothing too big to attempt,’—William Van Horne.” What was he so mad about, or was he just being a cool high school senior afraid to show any emotion other than anger?

  I tried to figure that one out, considering Emery was up near the top of my suspects list. Whether he had an alibi or not. I’d watched enough mysteries to know that people faked alibis all the time. Friends lied for them, and they eventually confessed they were lying. Another thing I’d learned was that people can’t keep secrets forever. Eventually they have to tell someone. Which made me worried about Dolce. Would she be able to keep her secret about spending the night with William, or would Jack get her to confess she was with him to save her from arrest? In which case William wouldn’t be able to get a favorable divorce settlement and he’d lose his private plane, and Dolce too.

  As for Emery’s quotation, what was the big thing he’d attempted? Winning Vienna’s love? Dumping Vienna for not returning his love and getting his revenge in the future? Or none of the above?

  Emery’s activities were as follows: “Archery Club, Chess Club, Marching Band.” If he was an archer and he wanted to kill someone, why not use his bow and arrow? Because it was too obvious, of course. Better to strangle the victim.

  Maybe I was out of date, being ten years older than these kids, but in my day marching band was not a cool activity. Neither was chess club or archery. They were definitely for nerds. For such a cool guy as Emery, those were unusual choices. Was he so cool he was not worried about what people thought? If so, I was impressed, and I wondered vaguely what instrument he played.

  I moved on to Raold’s page. At least he was looking straight at the camera as if he had nothing to hide. He was wearing a turtleneck sweater and a scarf. With his long hair and a name like Raold, he came across as at least part European. An exchange student? Or merely the product of an interesting blend of cultures? Was that what Vienna liked about him until she didn’t like him? And then he
killed her and took the first plane out of here for Argentina? Was he the one with the European sports car? Here’s what he belonged to at Prep: “Mock Trial Club, Outdoor Adventure Club, Surfing Club.” His favorite quotation: “‘Ask not what your teammates can do for you, ask what you can do for your teammates.’—Magic Johnson.”

  What had he asked his teammates to do for him? Lie about his whereabouts on the night of Vienna’s murder? And how was I supposed to track down these guys and grill them when that was Jack’s job—a job he was probably doing while I was riding a bus back to work?

  After the initial high of getting what I’d gone to the high school to get, I was falling into a letdown phase upon realizing finding Vienna’s killer wasn’t quite as easy as I’d thought. But I wasn’t finished yet. I still had Geoffrey.

  In his graduation photo, Geoffrey Hill looked just the way I’d expected he’d look. Long hair, intense eyes and an “I don’t care what anyone thinks of me attitude” visible even to me. He hadn’t changed that much. His activities were “Film Club, Earthbound Club, Computer Club.” I imagined him after high school, moving past the usual computer-geek activities and experimenting with all kinds of digital painting and drawing tools, which was obviously just what had happened, since he’d ended up as a web designer.

  Just as confused as ever, I put the yearbooks back in my bag and got off the bus. Back at Dolce’s, I apologized to her for being late, but Dolce was distracted. She had a frown on her face as she took me aside into the Accessories section of the alcove.

  “Pam Jennings is in my office,” she said. “She said she saw Vienna’s necklace in a pawnshop in the Tenderloin.”