by Wendy Tyson
“There must be good schools like that in California.”
“Harriet has family here. Plus, in my opinion—so don’t repeat it—I think she wanted her daughter away. As in miles and miles away.”
Interesting. Megan had assumed Harriet’s daughter had been a ward of the Commonwealth, like Dillon, but if Harriet had a choice, perhaps the school was private. “That means the school accepts paying students?” Megan asked.
Barbara nodded. “As a matter of fact, I think it’s mostly students who pay tuition. Does that matter?”
“No,” Megan said quickly. “I was just wondering about Dillon. How did he get in—and who was footing the bill?”
“Maybe that nice doctor? The one who fostered him?”
“Maybe,” Megan said. She doubted tuition was cheap, and that seemed above and beyond even Eloise’s willingness to be altruistic.
Barbara said, “Anyway, Harriet’s daughter was facing a pretty big choice. A special school or real, hard time—meaning a lock-up facility. A few too many thefts and a fire, at least that’s what I heard.”
“And the judge let her go to a private school? With that much on her record, it sounds like juvie would have been appropriate.”
Barbara smiled. “Good to know people in high places. When Harriet wants something, it generally happens.”
Megan knew how that worked. A few words with the right people and the wealthy executive’s daughter was flying first class to Philadelphia. Meanwhile, some kid with half her record would celebrate his birthday in lock-up.
Maybe it was time to visit Pioneer Village School.
“It’s a messed-up world,” Barbara said. She looked out on the veranda and watched as Xavier made his way back to the inn. He was carrying towels and a heavy white terry robe. His eyes were angry squints.
When he neared the entrance, Barbara said, “Harriet thinks the linens are dirty.”
“And she’s making Xavier return them?”
Barbara nodded. “Been there, done that.” She watched as Xavier dropped a towel, kicked it, and picked it up with two fingers, looking disgusted. Barbara laughed. “A crazy, awful, messed-up world.”
Pioneer Village School was located seventeen miles West of Winsome, in a small hamlet called Blessings, Pennsylvania. Megan drove along a series of back roads, watching the bucolic countryside give way to forest and the occasional abandoned factory or store reclaimed by nature. Her interest in the school had been piqued by her conversation with Barbara. She hadn’t expected it to be in such a remote location.
Megan thought she’d been everywhere in this part of Pennsylvania, but she’d never been to—or heard of—Blessings. Indeed, the town was more of a village. Sneeze, and you’d miss the town center, which consisted of a Victorian home reinvented as the town hall; a narrow, stone Catholic church; a luncheonette advertising $3.99 breakfasts; a Chinese take-out restaurant; a post office; and a bank. Further down the road, Megan saw signs for a bird sanctuary and nature center, and three miles beyond that was the driveway of what Megan presumed to be the Pioneer Village School.
Two stone black bears and a large rock surrounded by pink and white impatiens marked the entrance. No sign announced the school, but the street number—555—matched the address she’d found online.
Megan made a left and followed the driveway down a short, tree-lined drive until she reached the parking lot. She pulled into a visitor’s spot and looked up at the sprawling structure before her. The school was built of brick. A central square stood sentry, jutting forward toward the parking lot, three three-story arched windows only deepening the building’s intimidation factor. Two wings emerged from either side of the central portion, their windows plain rectangles topped with arched stained-glass panes.
No barred windows, no barbed wire fencing. It was an imposing building, and the exterior lacked warmth, but it didn’t scream “institution.” Megan got out of the car. As she walked toward the entrance, she wondered what it would be like to be a student here, to drive up that drive for the first time. She wondered what it had been like for Dillon.
How his life must have changed overnight. One day, two parents. The next day, both are whisked away. Strangers became his world.
The front door was unlocked, and Megan pushed it open carefully. It led her into a wide vestibule. On one side, a young woman with a bright red pixie haircut sat at a large Mission oak desk. She was small and slender and consumed by the big piece of furniture. A phone was positioned on her left side, a computer was chained to the desk in front of her, and it was hard to miss the suspicion in her eyes as Megan approached the desk.
“Dr. Star will be with you shortly.” Clipped British accent. Her tone was less than welcoming.
“I’m here—” Megan said.
But the woman was already on the phone.
Megan leaned over the desk. “Really, I’m not—”
The woman waved her hand and shushed her. She murmured something into the phone, hung up, and returned to her computer, dismissing Megan. Megan realized she had no good reason for being there—other than curiosity and a strange feeling that the school was somehow tied to all that was going on—but she hadn’t been shushed in a professional setting in forever, and she would be damned if she was going to be forthcoming with the receptionist after that.
A few minutes later, a startlingly handsome man in his fifties wearing pressed khakis and a button-down blue gingham shirt walked into the reception area. He nodded at Megan and motioned for her to follow him. Together they walked down a wood-floored hallway and into a spacious office. A wooden plaque on the desk said, “Dr. Star.” Two banks of filing cabinets and a printer and printer stand, plus two black upholstered chairs, made up the contents of the office. No photos, no personal items. One large arched window overlooked a manicured lawn and a set of tennis courts. The lawn was pristine; the courts had seen better days.
Megan recognized his name from a conversation with Eloise. This was the school’s psychotherapist.
“The kids here don’t tend to enjoy tennis,” Dr. Star said, following Megan’s gaze. “They’re more into video games than physical games, which is why we jumped at the chance to get them outside and hiking. Nature has a way of healing.” Dr. Star turned and studied Megan. “What do you want to know, Ms. Lewis? My receptionist tells me you’ve been very persistent. I’ll be candid, but I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t drag the school into the fray. These kids have been through enough.”
“I’m afraid I’m not who you think I am.”
Megan watched as Dr. Star’s eyes narrowed, going from cautious to outright distrustful. “Come again?”
“It’s a case of mistaken identity. I just want information about the school. I’m not Ms. Lewis—whoever that is.”
Dr. Star sat back in his chair and, to Megan’s surprise, started to laugh. “Ah, well, you didn’t look like the fiend my receptionist made Donna Lewis out to be.” He stood, leaned over the desk, and shook Megan’s hand. “My apologies. My staff can get impatient. Your real name, then?”
Megan told him. “It’s a lovely setting.”
“Yes, it is. As I said, we hope the woods have healing properties for our kids. Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn’t.” The phone buzzed, and Dr. Star picked it up. “Ah, it seems you made an error. Yes…bring her down…that’s fine.” He hung up. “Do you have a child for whom the school might be a good fit?”
“I know someone who could benefit.”
“Not your child.”
Thinking of Dillon, Megan said, “No, not mine.”
“There are brochures at the receptionist’s desk. We don’t do interventions, so if there are parents or guardians who would need to be brought on board, that would have to happen outside of us, and they would need to contact us personally.” His smile was apologetic, and he held Megan’s gaze for a few beats too long. “You under
stand.”
“I’d just appreciate a better sense of what the school does so I can tee it up to my friends.”
“The doctors here, they play with kids’ heads, that’s what they do,” said a voice behind Megan. “But only if they’re rich.” Megan turned in her seat and saw the red-haired receptionist standing next to a short, stout woman with silver hair, dressed head to toe in blueberry blue. “Dr. Star? Donna Lewis from The Bucks County Times. You’re a hard man to pin down.”
The receptionist looked stricken. The doctor smiled.
He said, “I’m glad you managed to find me.”
“I’m sure you are.” Donna Lewis seemed to notice Megan for the first time. “I see someone else got to you first.”
“Ms. Sawyer was just leaving.” He shook Megan’s hand, his gaze warm. To his receptionist, he said, “Can you give Ms. Sawyer some brochures? Maybe provide a high-level overview of the program? I’ll need some time with Donna.”
As Megan left the doctor’s office, she could hear Donna say, “It’s about time you agreed to see me, Dr. Star. After the atrocity your student committed, you owe the community information about exactly what goes on in this hellhole.”
Twelve
“What goes on here,” the receptionist said, “is old-fashioned treatment.” She slid two brochures across the desk to Megan. “Cognitive behavioral, mostly. We have a psychiatrist on staff when we need her.”
“For pharmacological treatment?”
“If absolutely required.” Connie tilted her head. “That’s not our primary treatment modality.”
Megan skimmed through the brochures: glossy, small print, lots of photos of the woods. A shot of the tennis courts looking new and neat. Selling a fantasy to parents? Come here and we’ll pull your child out of her or his head and into the real world of fresh air and mainstream sports? Megan’s eyes settled on one line: children of high-intellect.
A school for gifted children? Gifted children with emotional issues?
Megan said, “My nephew, he has special needs. Specifically, his IQ is…higher than average.”
“Is it above 135?”
“I believe so. Is that a problem?”
“That’s the threshold for admission.” She met Megan’s gaze with unexpected sympathy. “The IQ requirement can be a problem. Some kids would benefit from the program, but they just don’t meet the testing rules. A point or two will keep them out.” She shrugged. “We’ve been lobbying Dr. Star for years to provide other avenues—other tests—for admittance. Unfortunately, he feels this is an absolute prerequisite for the type of treatments here.”
This made a certain sense, given Dillon’s intelligence. Megan smiled. “Well, hopefully he’s bright enough. Appreciate your time.”
As Megan headed back outside, she heard the receptionist say, “What’s your nephew’s name? In case his parents call—”
Megan kept walking and pretended she couldn’t hear her.
Megan snapped off a garlic scape, lifted it toward the dying sun, and squinted. “What does Alvaro plan to make with these?”
“He sautés them with other spring veggies and serves them with mashed potatoes, homemade cranberry relish, and roasted chicken. Sometimes he makes vegetable pot pie.” Clover picked one and held it to her nose. “I think these may be my favorite of all the spring vegetables. And to think, most people don’t even know what they are.”
“Which is why we’ll bring them to Saturday’s farmers market.” Megan started snapping them off and tossing the fronds into a bowl. They were long and thin with a curlicue on the end. Bibi was making a salad, and Megan loved fresh scapes raw.
“Makes sense.” Clover plopped down on the ground and watched Megan pick vegetables for the salad. She traced a finger over the scape in her hand, her expression pensive. Finally, she said, “Bobby’s not sleeping.”
“Because of this case?”
“I guess.” Clover frowned. “Bobby won’t say it, but I think he kind of identifies with this kid.”
Megan glanced up. “Dillon?” They seemed worlds apart. Bobby was from a conservative family. He and Clover still lived near them in a house they rented from his parents. Megan wasn’t quite seeing the parallels.
“You were gone from Winsome when Bobby was a teen, but based on what I’ve managed to piece together from Bobby and his parents, he went through a bad spell after his grandfather died. Truancy. Anger issues. Bullied at school.” She shrugged, tossed her long hair over her shoulder. “He’s having nightmares, talking in his sleep. He’s been through a lot as Chief, but I haven’t seen him this shaken before.”
Megan mulled this over. He did seem particularly agitated when he visited her a few days back. Sympathizing with a potential suspect? Or conflicted over the direction the case was taking?
Megan made her way to the lettuce bed. She picked a large handful of baby lettuces and cut a head of Romaine. She added these to the bowl of garlic scapes.
“Has he said anything? About Dillon? About the investigation?”
“Only that it looks bad for the kid.”
Megan said, “He’s still in the psych unit.”
“Yes, but who knows for how long. I heard that Denver’s Aunt Eloise is working with the placement agency to get him help—and a good lawyer.”
“Not a public defender?”
Clover cleared her throat. “The kid has money.”
Megan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I just assumed…I guess I was wrong to do so.”
Clover unfurled herself. Standing, she raised her arms over her head and stretched. “Eloise would know more, but she probably won’t tell you. I bet if you do some digging, though, you can find out more about Dillon’s family. His dad was a big shot in the wrestling industry. They lived north of here. Near Allentown.”
“I’ll have to look into it.” Megan glanced around the farm, thinking about what else she wanted in her salad. Thinking about Dillon and his parents. Thinking about Bobby and Winsome. “Did Bobby say anything about the Pioneer Village School?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Just curious if he mentioned it.”
“I’m sure he and his officers were there, but beyond that I don’t know anything.” Clover looked toward the barn. “Can I meet this pig of yours before dinner?”
“Sure. Want to take Camilla some apples? She loves them.”
“Of course!”
“Head to the kitchen. Bibi probably has a pile sliced up for the pig.” Megan smiled. “She’ll tell you they’re for a pie. Don’t believe her.”
Clover laughed. “Your grandmother always was a secret softy.”
Denver joined them for dinner. Clover stayed because King was out again, working on the murder case. Bibi placed the salad on the table along with two homemade dressings and a loaf of sourdough bread. She dished out grilled cheese sandwiches to everyone except Clover. Avocado toast went in her spot at the table.
“Bonnie! You remembered.” Clover hugged her. “I love avocado toast.”
Bibi fought a smile. “You’re going to waste away on this diet.”
“It’s a lifestyle, Bibi, not a diet.”
Denver slid into his spot at the table. Megan noticed the shadows under his eyes, the extra growth of beard on his face. Perhaps Bobby King wasn’t the only one not sleeping.
“Denver,” Bibi said. “I’m glad you made it. Have some salad.” She heaped salad on his plate, then cut him a thick slice of sourdough. “Butter?”
“A sandwich, salad, bread, and butter, Bonnie? Are ye trying to fatten me up?”
“I’m helping you keep your energy up.”
“She’s trying to tell you that you look tired.” Clover shoved a piece of bread in her mouth—sans butter. “And she’s right.”
“I’ve had a few night calls.”
“Is t
hat it?” Clover eyed him over her toast. Softly, she said, “Or maybe it has something to do with what happened at the park.”
“Clover,” Megan said, “pass the salad, please?”
“Speaking of what happened, that man came into the café again today, fists swinging,” Clover said to Megan, oblivious to the tension in the room. “Xavier? Went after the other one. I think his name is Jatin?”
Denver looked suddenly alert. “What happened?”
“I have no idea. One minute Jatin was sitting at a table, drinking coffee and eating a slice of pie, and the next Xavier was there. He shouted something, the place got quiet, and Alvaro asked them to leave.”
“Did they?” Denver asked.
Clover nodded. “Jatin was already half out the door. Xavier gave Alvaro some lip and then he disappeared too.”
Bibi poured maple vinaigrette on her salad. She put the Mason jar down and said, “This town feels like it’s going to explode. I went to Bridge last night, and the murder was the only thing we discussed. What happened, who did it, why.” The look she gave Denver exuded empathy. “Of course, everyone assumes the boy did it.”
“Of course,” Denver said.
“I can’t see a young man doing that, not without great provocation,” Bibi said. “Boys turn anger outward, girls inward, if you ask me, so I could see a boy getting that angry. But not for no reason. A punch, a tantrum? But that?” She shook her head vehemently, side to side. “Not without a major incident beforehand.”
“And if there had been a major incident, you would think someone would have heard something,” Clover said.
Megan wasn’t so sure. The area was wooded, and the rest of the students were involved with other activities. She stayed quiet, though—and watched Denver.
“Bonnie,” he said calmly, “what if I told you the boy had a troubled past. That he witnessed his father harm his mother in a way that led to her death? Would that change your mind about him?”
