by Leslie Meier
“Did you all enjoy Windsor?” Pam was busy arranging her tiles on the little wooden rack.
“It’s a bit of a factory—they move you right along,” said Ann, putting down some tiles. “There. Ambiguity. And a double-word score.”
“Very nice,” said Dr. Cope. “Afraid all I can come up with is yak.”
“Did you get a look at Eton?” inquired Lucy, waiting for the computer to connect and authorize.
“Student,” crowed Laura, laying down the letters. “Thanks, Lucy.”
“No, the weather was foul and the hike up the hill to the castle entrance was rather strenuous, so we ended up having a long lunch at a nearby pub.” Dr. Cope looked at Pam. “It doesn’t seem to me we’ve left you much room to maneuver.”
Lucy had opened her account but once again found no message from Elizabeth. Bill, however, had sent a long, rambling note about Zoe’s big track meet against the rival Gilead Giants and Sara’s problems with her history term paper. She was busy writing back with congratulations for Zoe and helpful hints for Sara when there was a sudden upset at the Scrabble table and the board went flying, scattering wooden tiles every which way.
“Oh my goodness! I didn’t mean to do that!” Laura was on her knees, gathering up the little wooden squares.
“Let me help.” Dr. Cope dropped to the floor to help. “We better find them all.”
Ann was also stooping and picking up the game pieces. “We don’t want to spoil the game.”
“I wish I could help,” said Pam. “But I’m on the disabled list.”
Dr. Cope looked up at her. “What’s the problem?”
“I twisted my ankle. I expect it will be better tomorrow.”
“Better let me take a look at it.”
Pam smiled as he hobbled across the floor on his knees. “Sorry—I’m already married.”
“If you would just lift your pants leg,” he said, smiling at her joke as he took her ankle in his hand. “It’s definitely swollen. Does this hurt?”
“Aah,” protested Pam.
“Doesn’t seem too serious to me. Try to stay off it as much as you can. Ibuprofen will help with the pain and reduce inflammation.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Pam. “Shall we try another game?”
Ann was already back at the table, flipping the tiles so the letters faced down.
“I think I’m done for the night,” said Laura, dropping a handful of tiles on the table and dashing for the arched doorway.
Lucy, who was rising from her seat at the computer and relocating to the sofa, watched her sudden departure and caught a glimpse of Will taking the stairs two at a time, with his mother hurrying after him. A moment later, Jennifer wandered into the lounge with her usual uncertain attitude and seated herself on the sofa.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” she asked, tugging at a lock of hair.
“Not at all,” said Lucy. “There’s room for two.” She paused, reaching for a magazine. She opened it and began turning the pages. “Did you enjoy Windsor?”
“The castle is like a fairy tale,” said Jennifer. “I’d like to live there.” She blushed. “I guess every girl wants to be a princess.”
At the card table, Ann Smith, Pam, and Dr. Cope were choosing their letters and arranging them on their racks for a fresh game.
“A princess in a castle needs a gallant champion,” said Pam. “Any prospects?”
Jennifer laughed. “Not a one.”
“Not even Will?” asked Lucy, keeping her eyes on the magazine.
“He didn’t come. He wanted to see some dungeon thing here in London.”
Lucy’s and Pam’s eyes met as Dr. Cope slapped down all of his tiles on the board.
“Look at that: dragons.” He chuckled as he filled his rack again. “Will the Dragon Slayer.”
Jennifer was looking uncomfortable, so Lucy decided to change the subject. “Are you looking forward to getting back to school?” she asked.
“I’ve really been enjoying the trip, but now that we’re nearing the end, I have to admit I’ve been thinking about all the work that’s waiting for me back at school. Finals are coming up soon.”
“My daughter’s going to graduate in a few weeks,” said Lucy, “if she manages to stay out of trouble.”
“Where does she go?”
“Chamberlain, in Boston. She’s an RA. At least she was. She hasn’t been getting along with the new dean, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she lost her position.”
Jennifer turned to her. “Are you angry with her?”
Lucy considered the question as tiles clicked in the background. “A little bit, I guess, but this sort of thing is nothing new. Elizabeth’s always been a challenging kid.”
“She’s lucky to have such understanding parents. At school it seems kids are always at odds and fighting with their parents. Nobody at school ever says anything nice about their parents. They resent them.”
Lucy didn’t have any trouble imagining this. “What about you? Do you say bad things about your family?”
Jennifer shook her head. “No. Gramps and I are real close.” She turned her head and winked at him, and he winked back. “My father died when I was a baby, and Mom and I moved in with Gramps. He’s been super.”
“It’s been a pleasure, my dear.” He was watching Pam put down her tiles and groaned. “You are a devil,” he said, toting up her score. “Eighty-seven. How do you do it?”
“Practice. I play a lot with my husband. He’s a newspaper editor.”
“Humph.” Dr. Cope was studying the letters on his rack. “I call that an unfair advantage.”
Ann’s usually worried expression seemed to deepen. “What newspaper?”
“Tinker’s Cove,” said Pam automatically, replacing the tiles she’d used.
Lucy yawned and stood up, deciding to give her e-mail one more try before heading up to bed. “Cross your fingers for me—I’m giving Elizabeth one more chance before I turn in for the night.”
“Consider them crossed,” said Pam, busy rearranging the letters on her rack.
The computer was much faster this time, and Lucy got right into her e-mail account. There was no news from Elizabeth, but there was one from Ted. Opening it, she found he’d done the research about George Temple that Pam had requested.
I had to go back quite a few years, all the way back to the savings and loan crisis in the nineties. He lost his job as a bank president. He was basically fired by the board of directors and went into business for himself as an investment advisor. The fact that he’d been fired was kept secret, and quite a lot of bank customers signed on with him, but he wasn’t any better with investments than he was with banking. When the investments he recommended started losing value, he began falsifying the statements and inevitably began using good money to cover bad. The business turned into a Ponzi scheme. It all came apart in 1991 when a client began to suspect something was fishy and complained to the state. An investigation followed, and a lot of people who thought they were prudent investors learned they were broke, and Temple was convicted of fraud. He had a sympathetic judge—a lot of eminent types testified on his behalf, saying he never meant to hurt anyone, that he was just trying to keep things afloat until the market recovered—and he went to jail for a couple of years.
When he got out, he went back to school and got a master’s degree in history, cum laude, no less. Those same friends who testified on his behalf helped again and found him the job at Winchester College, where he seems to have been a great success. I called the college president, who says his death is a great loss to the school; Temple was even being considered for a professorship, something she said was long overdue. She also said a memorial service is planned for next week. If I learn anything more, I’ll pass it along. Meanwhile, Lucy, the work is piling up on your desk!
Lucy grimaced, picturing the stack of papers that she would face when she returned, and hit the PRINT button. Instead of obediently printing the page for her, the printer began beepin
g, alerting her to a paper jam. When she cleared it and tossed the offending paper into the nearby wastebasket she noticed a couple of sheets that looked familiar. Bending down to retrieve them she realized they were copies of the same attachment from Ted that she was printing. Ted must have sent the information to Pam as well, and Pam’s copy had printed earlier that day when the virus scan was complete. Which meant, thought Lucy, that somebody else had found it.
“I guess I’ll say good night,” she said to the room in general as she bundled the papers together.
Pam gave an ostentatious yawn. “You know, I think I’ll head upstairs, too. All this thinking has plum worn me out.” She added her tiles to the others spread out on the table. “It was fun. I hope we can do it again.”
“Absolutely,” said Dr. Cope. “You’ve certainly raised the level of the game.”
“Sleep well,” said Ann.
Lucy and Pam climbed the stairs in silence, except for the occasional groan from Pam, until they reached the top floor. There, she caught Lucy’s arm. “A funny thing happened during the game.”
Lucy was interested. “Really?”
Pam gave her a knowing look. “Remember when the board spilled?”
“Yeah.”
“Laura knocked it on purpose.”
“Why? Is she a sore loser?”
“I think it was the word I put down. The minute she saw it, she went all white.”
“Interesting. What was the word?”
Pam paused for emphasis. “Murder.”
“That is very interesting,” said Lucy. “And there was another interesting thing. Did you notice? Will didn’t go to Windsor. He stayed in London today.”
“I noticed that, too.” Pam shrugged. “But why would he want to knock me into the street?”
“Remember your attachment from Ted, the one you couldn’t get? Well here it is,” said Lucy, handing the papers to Pam. “It came through on the printer. I found it in the trash—somebody didn’t want you to see it.”
“You really think there was some sort of conspiracy to kill George?”
“Tell me what you think after you read it. It’s pretty interesting stuff.”
“See you in the morning.” Pam was already reading as she limped across the hall to her room.
Opening the door to the room she shared with Sue, Lucy found the lights were on but Sue had fallen asleep with an open magazine spread out on her chest. Her mouth was open, and in the harsh light of the bedside lamp, she looked much older than she did in daytime, when her face was carefully made up. Even Sue, thought Lucy as she carefully lifted the magazine off her chest and turned off the light, was beginning to show her age.
They all were, she mused as she brushed her teeth and washed her face and carefully applied her drugstore night cream. Then, tucking herself into bed, she reached for the mystery she was reading. She found it difficult to concentrate on the story, however, as her thoughts returned over and over to George Temple’s death.
Perhaps Inspector Neal was right and she did have an overactive imagination, but she had learned to trust her instincts, and they were telling her that something was odd about this tour. People were jumpy; their reactions didn’t seem quite normal. There was Tom Smith’s inappropriate guffaw when Quentin announced the memorial service for Temple, and there was Laura Barfield’s startled reaction when Pam used the word murder in the Scrabble game. And these were just small incidents. Lucy’s mind began to whirl, remembering Autumn’s warning to Jennifer in the Whispering Gallery at St. Paul’s and the way she’d teased her with the ravens at the Tower of London. And, of course, there was Caroline’s tumble off the Brighton Pier. Autumn had been quick to suggest Will had something to do with it, but did he? And had he spent the day playing some fantasy game, or had he read the e-mail and decided to follow Pam instead? And if he did indeed push Pam into traffic, was he issuing a warning or intending to kill her?
Lucy didn’t know the answers to any of these questions. She closed her book, turned off the light, and rolled over, intending to go to sleep. She closed her eyes but couldn’t stop the film that was running in her mind. It was the faces of the tour members, one after another, all expressing sorrow, anger, anxiety. If someone had asked her to sum up the group in a word, it would be tense. They were all nervous and jumpy; it was in the air and it was contagious. It kept you awake at night, she decided, flopping on her back and opening her eyes to stare at the ceiling.
She had learned one thing, though, that might explain everything. George Temple had a history. Before he was the esteemed instructor at Winchester College, he’d been involved in financial misconduct. He’d even gone to jail. He’d been punished. Lucy yawned. And it had all taken place a long time ago. It was history, a footnote in the cycle of booms, bubbles, and recessions. That’s what Lucy was thinking of, bubbles and dollar signs, when she finally drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Seventeen
Friday morning, the group departed on the minibus for Bath, which Quentin made a point of announcing was properly pronounced Baaath.
“Bath is rich in historic and literary associations,” he began from his perch in the front of the minibus. “The original Roman baths for which the city is named are well preserved and offer a fascinating glimpse into ancient times. But for many of us, including myself, it is the city’s association with Jane Austen that most fascinates. Those of you who have read Persuasion and Northanger Abbey know that she used the city as a setting for part of the action. The famous Pump Room is still in business serving tea.”
“Tea!” Sue gave Lucy and Pam a little nod. “We’ll finally get our afternoon tea.”
“And on the way we’ll stop at Salisbury Cathedral. It has the tallest spire in England,” he said, pausing when Autumn and Will groaned in protest.
“I know, we have seen a lot of churches, but this one has quite a nice lunchroom where we can get something to eat, and it has one of the four existing copies of the Magna Carta. And on the way home, we’re going to pause at Stonehenge. I’m hoping to time it so we can see the sunset there.”
For once Will seemed interested in the itinerary. “They did human sacrifices there, right?”
“Perhaps,” admitted Quentin. “No one knows for sure what the circle was used for.” His eyebrows rose. “That’s what makes it so fascinating, for me at least: the mystery.”
“I believe it has something to do with the solstice—a calendar of sorts,” suggested Dr. Cope.
Lucy was listening, watching the street scene as the minibus wove its way through the city. People were walking along purposefully, probably on their way to work. She had enjoyed the trip—she loved being in a different country—but she was eager to get home. She missed Bill and the kids, she was worried about Elizabeth, and she missed her job. Back in Tinker’s Cove, she was sure of herself. She knew her roles as wife and mother and reporter. Here, it was different. She couldn’t escape the feeling that something was very odd about this group of tourists, but she wasn’t comfortable crossing the line and investigating them. It wasn’t her business to pry into their lives—or was it? If there had been a conspiracy to murder Temple, wasn’t it her duty to expose it? After all, murder wasn’t only a crime against the victim; it was a crime against society as a whole.
“I read the attachment.” Pam had cupped her hand around Lucy’s ear and was whispering.
“What do you think about it?”
“Well, it was a long time ago.” Pam’s voice was low. “People change. He was tried and punished. As far as I’m concerned, he paid his debt to society.”
Lucy nodded. “We’ve all done bad things.”
“And it’s not like he killed somebody or anything,” continued Pam. “It was only money. White-collar crime.”
From the window, she saw a couple of men walking along on the sidewalk, togged out in dark suits and carrying briefcases and umbrellas. They looked terribly respectable, irreproachable even, headed no doubt for jobs in the City, as London’s financ
ial district was known. “Not exactly a home invasion,” said Lucy, thinking of a violent episode that had recently taken place in a neighboring town.
“Or a serial killer.” Pam shifted in her seat and flexed her ankle. “My ankle is much better today,” she added. “But I am glad for the minibus. And it’s nice to get out of the city and see some more of the countryside.”
Lucy agreed. One of the things that had surprised her most about England was the large amount of unspoiled countryside. She loved seeing the rolling green fields dotted with sheep or cows and sometimes horses. There was much more than in Maine, where family farms were going the way of the dodo, replaced either by strip malls or gradually overtaken by trees and reverting to forest.
Of course, in England they still had open markets where small farmers could sell their produce. In Maine, farmer’s markets were just beginning to sprout, and there was nothing like Portobello, where the stalls with meat and eggs and vegetables were mixed right in with the used clothing and antiques. She settled back in her seat, intending to enjoy the ride, but her thoughts kept straying from the pastoral scenes outside to the group inside the minibus.
Only money. That’s what Pam had said, but that was an oversimplification. It was never “only money” or “only my house—thank heaven we’re all still alive.” After the shock of the hurricane or tornado or fire wore off, there you were with nothing but the clothes on your back. She and Bill had struggled financially when he gave up Wall Street to become a restoration carpenter in Tinker’s Cove, and she remembered the hard choices they’d had to make. Groceries instead of a new winter coat, heating oil instead of Christmas presents, and paying Doc Ryder five or ten dollars a month against the balance he patiently carried for years before they finally got caught up.
They had been fortunate. A generous check from Bill’s parents had helped them through that terrible first winter, and Bill’s business gradually became successful. Not that they hadn’t had lean years since, but they’d always managed. They even had a tidy sum put away for the kids’ college expenses and maybe, someday, if anything was left, retirement. So even though she wasn’t exactly pleased that Elizabeth might lose her RA position, it wasn’t the end of the world. She had money to pay the additional expenses.
