Prepped to Kill

by M. Lee Prescott

“Surely no one takes him seriously?”

  “Not many, but it’s disruptive and troubling nonetheless. Very confusing for our current parents, especially. In these hard economic times, to have this kind of thing going on has been very unsettling to all, especially Admissions.” He paused, running his fingers through his hair, staring at the worn Persian carpet. When he looked up, his eyes betrayed a deep weariness, and what appeared to be desperation.

  “There’s more. It’s ugly and sordid, but if you poke around, you might hear it, and I’d rather you hear it from me. Jared and my wife, Ellen, had an affair. It was brief and over long ago, but you can imagine how easy it’s been for him to claim his firing was me seeking revenge. Fact is, I knew nothing about the affair until a month ago. Ellen received a letter and then told me.”

  I listened, wondering what kind of an idiot would cheat on the gorgeous man sitting across from me. Then again, the world is full of idiots.

  “He’s threatened many times to go public with the affair. So far, he has kept quiet out of deference to Hope and the kids, and perhaps Ellen, I suppose.”

  “Is that what the letter was about?”

  “No, it was a nasty little thing. I’ll show it to you tomorrow.”

  “I don’t want to pry, but where does your wife figure in all this?”

  “Once the affair came to light, it caused a strain, of course. Ellen and I are temporarily separated. We hope to reconcile. No one knows except our children and Aunt Muriel.”

  “That’s a pretty big burden for children to shoulder. How old are they?”

  “That’s not your concern, my dear.”

  Ignoring his aunt, he said, “Sixteen, fourteen and eight. They’re okay. We’re seeing a family therapist.”

  “Donald!”

  “It’s all right, Aunt.” He turned back to me, a wry smile playing across his face. Suddenly we were co-conspirators, plotting under the nose of the wicked queen. “The therapist’s told the kids we’re trying to work things out and that it’s better if we do it in private. It’s working so far. They’re great kids. We try to keep the channels open. Maybe we can get through this. I don’t know.”

  “I hope you do,” I said, my words sounding hollow and perfunctory. “Working things through” certainly hadn’t worked with my marriage and my husband’s infidelity. “From what I’ve heard so far, it doesn’t sound like you need a private investigator. A good lawyer would seem to be the best person to sort this out.”

  “The school attorney is working on it, believe me, but there’s more. Poor Carolyn’s suicide two weeks ago, for one.” Vinnie’s words, “murder or suicide?” echoed through my head as I listened to his description of the popular art teacher’s death. Found in a school garage, carbon monoxide, police investigated, ruled it a suicide. “At one time, Carolyn was a good friend of Jared’s. Probably his best friend on the faculty.”

  “Is her suicide connected to Jared’s firing, do you think?”

  “I wouldn’t have said so, but Jared thinks differently, of course. I’ve had several letters and acrimonious phone calls about it. However, that’s not my immediate concern. I can handle Jared, or at least fend him off. I believe Aunt Muriel told you about Missy Franklin’s disappearance?”

  “The student?”

  He nodded. “She’s been gone since yesterday morning, or maybe the night before. Her disappearance was discovered at breakfast. Kids run off from time to time, and we are always concerned, but Missy’s disappearance is particularly disturbing coming just now. First, she’s a great kid. Straight A’s, varsity athlete, a quiet, responsible girl. She’s also the niece of Pamela Franklin.”

  “Pamela Franklin Rhodes?” I asked, referring to the governor of Massachusetts.

  “The very same, and Missy’s guardian while her parents are out of the country. The Governor has been notified. We won’t be able to reach the parents for several days. For now, Pamela has agreed that we should keep Missy’s disappearance quiet. She’s afraid going public will bring out the kooks, and I concur. I told her we were hiring a private investigator and she’s insisted on paying your fee.”

  Something wasn’t adding up and I didn’t like the tingling sensation creeping up my spine. Also, the realization that I was way over my head made me nauseous and light-headed. “I don’t know. This really does sound like a job for the police.”

  “No!” Muriel drained her glass, setting it down with a clink on the glass-topped table.

  Her nephew did not rise to refill it. “Hear me out, Ricky, please.” I nodded. I could listen to him forever, gazing into those sad, puppy dog eyes. “Missy was very close to Carolyn Santos and Jared Phelps. She was devastated by Carolyn’s death. They spent almost all of their free time together, working in the studio or the school gardens, going to lunch in the village on Saturdays. We thought maybe you could get close to Missy’s friends, find out what she was thinking about this past week, where she might have gone.”

  Oh sure, a bunch of adolescent girls are just itching to blab their secrets to chummy old middle-aged me. “That might be difficult.”

  “Let’s discuss it over dinner.” Rising, he offered Muriel his arm. Like a hawk seizing its prey, arthritic, talon-like fingers gripped his arm, and Auntie swayed to her feet. Dinny peered over her head, winking. I smiled, entirely too warmed by our conspiratorial exchange.

  During dinner we talked about the school and the changes in the years since my graduation. My usual response when finding the Wheel in my mailbox is to dump it directly into the trash, so I was behind on almost every school improvement project—new gym with squash courts, Olympic-size pool, weight room, state-of-the-art science labs, major overhaul of the library, and, of course, freedom unheard of in my day.

  In the late sixties there had been no cell phones, iPhones or Internet. We had been cut off from the world, prisoners, confined to school grounds until senior year, when we were granted three hours on Saturdays to roam around town. Now the campus was open. Underclassmen, even freshmen, were allowed to come and go during their free time. The old sign-out system was still in place, but now, it actually got used. Students could attend movies without chaperones sitting in the back row of the theater. They could take buses to neighboring towns for athletic events, fairs, even concerts. It sounded positively human when compared to our monk-like existence. Going coed hadn’t hurt either.

  As we talked, Muriel put her two cents in from time to time, but for most of the meal Dinny and I chatted as if she were on another planet. The plan was that during Reunion Weekend, I would enjoy myself, taking in all the alumni events. Then, Sunday, I would move into Round House, Missy’s dorm. Monday morning it would be announced at Morning Assembly that I would be temporarily filling in as houseparent until a permanent replacement for Carolyn arrived the following week. Dinny explained that this would not seem unusual as alumni in the area often filled in as substitute teachers or dorm parents. Apparently, since Carolyn’s death, Christine Parnell, the art teacher, had been filling in as housemother.

  Recalling my own housemothers and the horrible way we treated them, I was not looking forward to Sunday evening. As if reading my thoughts, he said, “Don’t worry. The girls aren’t nearly as sadistic as they were in your day. Freedom helps.”

  Shortly after dinner, I thanked them and rose. As I squeezed her hand, Muriel managed a wan smile. Gonzo.

  Dinny ushered me through the gardens to my car, hand lightly grasping my elbow. His touch excited me far more than it should have and I was flustered and confused by the time he opened the car door.

  I hopped in, fumbling with my keys as he leaned over, reaching to take hold of my hand. “Thanks for coming, Ricky.”

  “No problem.”

  “See you at my office at ten o’clock for the grand tour of the new Whitley?”

  “Absolutely. I look forward to it.”

  “Oh, almost forgot. You don’t have my phone numbers if you need to reach me.”

  “Not in the directory?”
I asked, waving the Whitley School phone book he’d given me.

  “I never got around to explaining that, did I? Aunt Muriel is furious about it, so I don’t mention it in her presence. I’m not living in the Head’s House. Ellen and the kids are there, but I’m in an apartment.”

  “That seems a little odd, you being Head and all.”

  “It’s just temporary, we hope, and much easier on the kids. We’re also trying to keep the community in the dark while we try to patch things up. No sense getting everyone upset over nothing.”

  Nothing indeed, I thought, handing him a pen and the directory.

  His hand brushed mine as he returned the directory. “Ricky, thank you.”

  “Sure. See you tomorrow.” I backed up too fast, dismayed to recognize that my old schoolgirl crush had returned like gangbusters. Only now we were both middle-aged and well able to act on fantasies and impulses. Yikes, I had been celibate too long.

  CHAPTER 5

  I slept fitfully in a king-size bed that felt like it was stuffed with marbles. Sore from head to toe, I rose, did some yoga stretches, then headed out for a jog-walk along strip mall row. After showering, I dressed in black linen slacks and cream-colored silk tee shirt, silver earrings and matching necklace. I was trying for an understated, professional look, but my hair, shoulder-length and wild, refused to cooperate. After several minutes of futile fussing, I sighed at my reflection in the grimy bathroom mirror and surrendered my brush.

  On my way out, I plucked a tourist map of Westfield from the rack in the lobby and was breezing by an unappetizing continental breakfast buffet when Amanda called out, “Hey, 101, got a sec?”

  101? Was this a motel or prison? I turned, smiling. “Morning.”

  “Got you a double, if you still want it.”

  “Great, yes, I do. I’m late for an appointment so I’ll have to come back later to change rooms.”

  “No can do. Gotta be out this morning. Housekeeping’s gotta get in. Big reunion, no vacancies, remember?” She tore her Danish in half, dunking the larger hunk in her coffee and slurping it up.

  “Here’s my key. All my stuff’s in my bag except for toilet articles. Could you ask housekeeping to just grab up everything and throw it in the new room? I’m not fussy.”

  “Hon, this ain’t the Ritz.”

  I smiled, pulling forty dollars from my purse. “Please ask housekeeping if they wouldn’t mind. I’ve gotta go.”

  Snatching the bills, she tucked them in her breast pocket. “I guess one of us can take care of it.”

  “Thanks so much.” I turned, heading for the door.

  “That’s an extra ten a night, you know.”

  “Fine.”

  “What about breakfast? Aren’t you gonna have any?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll grab a cup of coffee in town.”

  “Got good coffee here. Mocha java, straight from Columbia.”

  “Sounds great. I’ll be sure to have some tomorrow morning.”

  “I bet you’re one of those coffee snobs. Headin’ up to Starbucks now, ain’t ya? Good old American coffee not good enough for you.”

  I refrained from commenting on the good old American coffee “straight from Columbia” since I had tried a cup after my run and had nearly gone into toxic shock. “I’m really not a coffee snob. You’ll see that once you get to know me.”

  She snorted as I waved myself out the door.

  The drive through town brought memories of long-ago days spent roaming through stores on Main Street during our few precious hours of freedom. There were still a few familiar storefronts. As I approached campus, the first of the white clapboard dormitories came into view—Whitley Hall, my residence freshman year. As I drove by, a group of young women burst through the front door, carrying armloads of books, and turned north, in the direction of the classroom buildings. After passing Whitley Hall, I turned right onto Tucker Drive and parked in front of Willard House.

  Red brick and ivy-draped, Willard was the oldest building on campus. During my years at Whitley, it had been a senior residence hall. In those days, the administrative offices, including Mrs. Petty’s lair, had been housed in Whitley Hall. After construction of the new dorms on west campus, Willard had been restored and it now housed administrative offices, admissions and the infirmary.

  Stepping out of the car, I vainly endeavored to smooth my slacks, wrinkled and clinging after the short ride. I caught my reflection in the car window. Frumpy came to mind. Undaunted, I straightened my shoulders and marched up the brick walkway. The receptionist stepped from behind her desk to shake my hand. “Hello, Ms. Steele, I’m Florence. So nice to see you. Mr. Petty’s expecting you. Please have a seat and I’ll tell him you’re here. How ‘bout some coffee or tea?”

  “Please. Tea, no cream or sugar would be great.”

  She disappeared through a door to the left, and I settled myself on a wide, comfortable couch, thinking how nice it would be to curl up for a quick snooze. I had just begun skimming the latest issue of Independent School Journal when Dinny appeared and ushered me back to his office.

  As soon as we stepped over the threshold, he turned to me, eyes like a hunted animal. “Ricky, could you take a seat for a minute or two? I’ve got something to sort out down the hall. Be right back, I promise.” Without waiting for my reply, he disappeared, closing the door behind him.

  My tea was waiting so I sat back in a chintz-covered wing chair, taking in my surroundings. It was an inviting, comfortable room. Ivory walls reached to ten-foot ceilings, the dark chestnut wainscoting and moldings glowing. One wall held floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with gold-tipped leather-bound volumes in mint condition. Decorator books, Bunny called them. Shelves at the far right held what appeared to be Dinny’s private collection, an assortment of historical texts, biographies, teaching and leadership self-helps, and several dozen novels.

  A matching wing chair sat across from mine. In front of me, a coffee table stood between the wing chairs. A couch to my left was covered in a dark, musky print complementing the chairs’ bright yellows and greens. His desk was a massive, mahogany affair with a high-backed swivel chair covered in dark green leather behind it. Two matching armchairs sat poised and ready for visitors in front of the desk.

  Someone with taste had decorated this room. The unfaithful wife? Whoever it was, the room was a far cry from what I remembered. With its musty Victorian furnishings, Muriel’s office could have doubled as the set of Arsenic and Old Lace. Gone were the drab, faded velvets, fussy brocades and lace antimacassars. I leaned back, wondering what it might be like sitting in one of those leather chairs with Dinny interrogating me, instead of the dragon lady.

  The door closed quietly behind me. “I never talk with students from behind my desk. Hence, two chairs on this side.”

  “You read my mind.”

  “It’s not difficult, especially considering your years here. Bumpy, as I recall.”

  I shrugged.

  “Couldn’t have been easy for you, losing your mother and then getting shipped off to boarding school.”

  I rose and moved to the window. Even after all these years, I was not comfortable talking about my mother. “It wasn’t like that. My mother had been gone for five years by the time I came to Whitley. Dad had already remarried.”

  “Ah, yes, the second Mrs. Steele. I imagine we’ll see her this weekend, don’t you think?”

  “I haven’t a clue. My father and I aren’t close.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Dinny, could we get back to why I’m here? I’d like to take a look at the letters and things.”

  “Of course.” He looked flustered. “They’re at the apartment. I’ll get them to you this afternoon.” His eyes scanned the room, avoiding me as he scratched his head, moving from chair to the window. “Look, why don’t I tell my secretary we’re heading out? Unless you want to finish your tea?”

  I set the delicate Royal Doulton cup on its saucer. “I’m fine. Let�
�s go.”

  High-pitched screeching greeted us as we stepped into the hall.

  “I’m sorry, Christine,” Florence’s patient voice intoned. “He’s busy all day. Can I—”

  Dinny steered me toward a rear exit, but not quickly enough. The door behind us banged open. “Oh, there you are, finally!” An imposing woman in olive muslin pants and a matching tunic approached. She was attractive in a wild, earthy way. She was not fat, but substantial, and her salt-and-pepper hair fell in masses of thick curls that reached her waist. The art teacher, I guessed, admiring the silver jewelry hanging from her neck and wrist, silver and turquoise rings on almost every finger, huge hoops at her ears.

  “Chris, hi.” His arm stiffened against my back and he withdrew it slowly as she approached. “What can I do for you?”

  Green eyes flashed fury. “Enough is enough, Dinny. I did my time in the dorm. Ten bloody years of it. I want to go home to my animals and my studio.”

  “Chris, I’d like you to meet Ricky Steele. She’s an alumna, here for her reunion. She’s agreed to stay on for a week at Round House until Carolyn’s replacement arrives.”

  “Thank God. Are you moving in today?”

  “No, she’s not. You’ll have to hold on until Sunday. You can make it that long, can’t you?”

  “No, frankly, I can’t. Tim wants me home.” The husband, I assumed. Poor old Tim, an afterthought, taking a distant third behind the animals and studio.

  “Chris, please. We need you there. I’ll try and see if we can get coverage for you Friday and Saturday night, as long as you’re willing to sleep there. Two more nights, that’s all I ask.”

  “You’re punishing me for Jared, aren’t you?”

  “Chris, this is neither the time nor place for—”

  “Forget it.” Waving her hand, she turned and stomped off. “I’ll expect that coverage.” The door slammed behind her.

  Dinny’s cheeks were bright red. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  “Unhappy lady.”

  “It’s an unfortunate situation.”