by Wendy Tyson
“I think your friends are back,” Megan said.
“They’re not my friends.” Martine threw her head back, exposing a slender neck and a lacy rash above her collarbone. “And nothing will get better with Harriet here.”
“But she’s the big boss.”
Martine nodded, stood. “Dr. Harriet Mantra. One of BOLD’s founding members.”
“This charity event was her brainchild, right?”
Martine sighed. “Yep. And now that brainchild is dead. And Harriet is livid.”
Eleven
Martine slipped back in her room, leaving Megan to negotiate her way back down to the center hall. The innkeeper was there, checking in Harriet. Xavier and Barbara were huddled by the desk, waiting. The friendly Schnauzer seemed wary of the stranger. She was leaning away from her and against Barbara’s leg. Barbara rewarded her with a quick pat.
“Megan,” Xavier said, managing to sound surprised and sarcastic at the same time. “What brings you to the beautiful Bucks County Inn? Did our dear friend Daniel send you?”
“I thought I would check on you, see if you were okay.”
“No Denver?” Barbara’s smile had all the energy of a dead battery. “We haven’t seen him since Saturday.”
“He’s been caught up with his practice and his aunt.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten that the boy was her foster child. She must be terrified, having lived with a killer under her roof.” Before Megan could respond, Xavier nodded toward the new woman. “This is Dr. Harriet Mantra, CEO and Chief Strategist at BOLD.”
As though on cue, the woman finished with the innkeeper and turned. Up close, she seemed even taller—close to six foot. She had long, thick, straight black hair, slightly frizzy on the ends. Expertly applied makeup tried to shave ten years off her fifty-five or so, and the monotone pantsuit succeeded in trimming ten pounds. More striking than beautiful, Harriet Mantra had a strong jaw, handsome features, and a pair of piercing eyes. These eyes bore into Megan’s with an intelligent ferocity that was almost intimidating.
Almost. Megan had spent too much time in a courtroom back in her law firm days to be easily cowed. But she recognized someone used to moving mountains—on their own terms.
“Megan Sawyer.” Megan held out her hand. The return grip was firm, Harriet’s skin smooth and dry.
“Megan Sawyer? Are you with the law firm we hired?” The glance Harriet threw at Barbara asked the same question: Why is this woman here?
“No, I’m not.”
“Megan is a friend of a friend,” Barbara said. “A local businessowner and the girlfriend of a college friend.”
Harriet’s expression said if Megan wasn’t with the police or a lawyer, she’d already dismissed her as irrelevant.
“Nice to meet you, Megan. You’ve heard all about what happened to Charles. We have some business to attend to. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course.”
Barbara and Xavier exchanged a look. “Good to see you, Megan,” Barbara said. “Please tell Denver not to be a stranger.”
Harriet was already walking toward the veranda, which would lead out to the barn apartment. Her bags stood next to the desk, probably for the innkeeper to handle. Harriet had her hand on the knob leading outside, and without turning around, she said, “Please make sure Ms. Sawyer doesn’t tell anyone where we’re staying. The press are here—I saw the vans on our way in. It would be unfortunate if they discovered our whereabouts. This lovely inn would become a zoo.”
Megan said, “I’m still here, Dr. Mantra. I can hear you. And I won’t be the one who tells reporters where you are.”
“Good.” Harriet pushed open the door. “Xavier, my bag,” she called over her shoulder.
When Harriet was out of earshot, Xavier looked at Barbara and laughed. Barbara didn’t look so amused.
“She’s an acquired taste,” Xavier said. “Absolutely brilliant. She took the company from a few scientists to a real competitor. Unfortunately, with that amount of brilliance comes a degree of narcissism.”
“A degree?” Barbara shook her head. “You’d better get the bags to her. Otherwise, we’ll both be getting irate text messages.”
“That bad?” Megan said once Xavier had gone.
“Worse. That was her good behavior. Only certain people can work with her because BOLD considers her a lawsuit risk.” Barbara shook her head. “I can see why her daughter avoids her at all costs.” She closed her eyes. “And why there was so much tension between them growing up. So much so that Harriet sent her across the country.”
“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 ma
de 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 understand.”
“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 th
ese 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.”
