Orchid blinked. “Um . . .”
“Actually, it’s gross out there, too. The stupid tarp came down overnight and the floor’s all wet. I practically slipped and broke my neck already today.”
“The hall is flooded?” Orchid asked. Way to bury the lede, Peacock.
The other girl sat up, looking contrite. “Oh yeah. It’s pretty bad.”
“We need to mop it up before the water damages the wood!” cried Orchid. “That parquet floor is original to the house. Mrs. White freaks out if we so much as walk on it with high heels.”
“Mop?” Beth shot her a look. “Don’t we have, like, two janitorial staff people already in the house?”
Orchid’s mouth snapped shut. Okay, she’d take care of it herself. She was one of the actual residents of Tudor. If anyone could be expected to respect the house, it was the people who lived here when it wasn’t a storm shelter. Tudor may not be the shimmering jewel it was back in the timber baron days, but the mansion still had its charms.
Besides, Orchid knew who else might appreciate it too. She pulled on an oversized sweater, fleece leggings, and a pair of fingerless gloves, slipped her feet into a pair of boots, and headed out.
Even from the top of the stairs, Orchid could see the extent of the damage. The tarp lay crumbled in a heap on the hall floor, and freezing air whistled in through the shattered window. The floor shimmered with puddles of icy water, some of which showed signs of crystallizing from the low temperature. She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth and carefully headed down the wet staircase, afraid that the marble beneath her feet might have frozen over, too. From the look of the floor below, the tarp must have been down half the night.
She should wake Mrs. White. Then again, the old woman had already been so upset to see what had happened to the window. Maybe, if Orchid got the floor cleaned up quickly, Mrs. White would never need to know. Before she could stop herself, Orchid took a quick left toward the library, and knocked softly.
It took a minute for Vaughn to answer. He was dressed in flannel pants and a grungy, long-sleeve thermal shirt missing buttons nearly to the waist. He still looked . . . pretty good. Maybe she’d been in Maine too long.
He rubbed his fist groggily across his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Hey, I hate to bother you, but the tarp came down in the hall—”
“Oh no, is it still raining? Do you need help rehanging it?”
“No . . .” She bit her lip as she realized what she must look like. “You know what? Go back to bed. I know where the mops are.”
Already he looked more awake, but his voice still creaked. “You sure?”
She started backing away. “Positive.”
“Okay.”
She turned away, cursing herself. She was no better than Scarlett or Peacock, waking up the poor scholarship student to mop her floor after a blizzard. She could mop. She knew where they kept the cleaning supplies.
Probably.
In the far back corner of the house was the conservatory, a sort of quasi-greenhouse where Mrs. White cultivated a bunch of ferns, some orchids, and a trio of dwarf citrus trees much beloved by all the girls in Tudor. Orchid had helped Mrs. White with watering and pruning loads of times, and she recalled that some mops, brooms, and brushes had been stashed in the utility closet where Mrs. White kept the gardening tools. She’d find what she needed in there.
The hall was dim, back behind the stairs, and the puddles of water dotted about the floor hinted at how long the tarp over the window must have been down. She couldn’t believe the rain had made it all the way back here. The door to the conservatory was shut, and at first the handle didn’t even turn. Was it locked? Orchid had never seen it locked the entire time she’d lived in Tudor. She pulled harder.
No . . . It was only stuck. Probably the cold, or the dampness or something, which had caused the wood to expand. She threw her shoulder against the door, and it popped as it opened. Cold, gray light hit her eyes from the massive windows at the back of the house. She blinked at the brightness, shielding her eyes as she stepped into the room.
She’d hardly gotten past the threshold when she tripped over something and fell. Orchid threw out her arms to catch herself before she slammed into the hard, tiled floor, but instead she hit a soft, bulky mass, then rolled into yet another frigid puddle.
The windows must have broken in here, too was her first hazy thought. And then she looked at her arms, which were bathed in red.
And two feet away lay a crumpled form. His skin was gray. His mouth was slack. His pale fingers still clutched the handle of the knife jutting out of his chest. But it was his eyes that terrified her the most. Flat, unblinking, and staring right at her.
“Orchid?” came a voice behind her, and she tried to inhale, but there was no air. There was no air anywhere. She was covered in blood and she couldn’t breathe. Just like before. Just like before.
“What did you need help with—”
And then Vaughn, too, lost the ability to speak. Or at least, she no longer heard it over the thunderous rush in her ears. She felt his hands on her shoulders, pulling her up and back out of the room, and he seemed to be shouting her name.
Dark spots appeared in the corners of her vision. She choked and spluttered and stared into Vaughn’s light brown eyes, until they were the only things she could see.
“Breathe,” he ordered, and she did.
Her lungs inflated, and she gasped, “Mr. Boddy! He’s dead!”
10
Mustard
The wind whistled through the hole in the hall window. The tarp was being used for other purposes. It was Mustard who had covered the headmaster in the tarp, with the assistance of Rusty Nayler. They’d debated about whether or not they should attempt to move him, or even roll him over from where he’d apparently fallen on that knife. Mustard was afraid if they didn’t get the corpse somewhere cold, at least while they were all still trapped in the house, they’d soon regret it.
“Where would you put the headmaster of Blackbrook Academy?” asked Rusty. “In the shed, where he could get flooded out and float away?”
“It’s not the headmaster anymore,” Vaughn had said, nearly under his breath.
It might not have been Boddy, but it looked like him. Headmaster Boddy, with his neatly trimmed white beard and fancy pajamas. Boddy, only with skin the color no skin should be, and eyes as dead as glass, and the giant hole in his chest.
They’d compromised and opened one of the big conservatory windows, letting in the cold air. Hopefully it would be enough to slow the progress of—whatever it was that happened to a body in death.
The girls were taking it well. Mustard had half expected hysterics—screaming, fainting, maybe some vomit. Girls in movies always did stuff like that. Girls in real life, though . . . well, it wasn’t like he really knew any.
Orchid had looked a bit green around the gills when he’d first come into the conservatory, but Mustard chalked that up more to shock than anything else. Boddy’s blood still stained her clothes from where she’d fallen on top of the body. Vaughn had brought her wet rags to wash with, but she’d taken only a few perfunctory swipes at her skin before giving up. Now she sat on a chair in the corner of the hall, knees drawn up to her chest, her face drawn and pale, but calm.
Everyone was quiet. Beth Picach hadn’t spoken three words since coming downstairs. Karlee and Kayla, both in pastel fleece pajama sets, were holding each other, sobbing with their heads down on each other’s shoulders. Mrs. White was standing, her back against the wall as if for support, and watching the proceedings with red-rimmed eyes. He supposed that was the storied stiff upper lip all the locals were famous for. Nothing ruffled them, even finding a corpse next to their potted Phalaenopsis.
At last she seemed to realize how ghoulish it was for everyone to be standing around, watching them wrap the headmaster up.
“Come to the dining room,” she ordered the rest of the students in a voice few would be willing to
disobey. “I’ll make tea.”
“I—I need to change,” said Orchid softly, and excused herself.
Mustard and Rusty washed their hands, then joined the others.
Scarlett, predictably, had taken charge of the conversation in the dining room.
“I don’t know why he would have done such a thing,” she was saying as they entered. “He didn’t seem that upset last night. I mean, concerned about the damage, to be sure . . . But suicide?”
“Maybe Blackbrook doesn’t have insurance,” said Peacock. “And the damage is going to be extensive.”
“That can’t be right,” said Plum. “A school like this, with the endowment we have . . .”
“Not everyone gets flood insurance,” Scarlett pointed out. “If you’re not in a flood zone—”
“Blackbrook is in a flood zone,” said Vaughn. “We’re right on the sea.”
Mustard couldn’t believe he was listening to this. Weren’t these kids supposed to be geniuses? “Excuse me,” he said. The others all looked at him. “Are you saying— Do you think this was a suicide?”
“Of course,” said Scarlett, as if he were the one being unreasonable. “His hands were on the knife.”
“That doesn’t mean—” He looked helplessly at Rusty, whose expression was as closed off as if it were every day he came upon the bloody corpse of his boss. Rusty just shook his head and went to take a seat in the corner.
Mustard frowned. He’d work that bit out later. “All that means is he grabbed it, which could have happened after he’d been stabbed. Think about it, if you get even a splinter, what’s the first thing you do?”
Scarlett glared at him for several long seconds, then slumped in her seat. “Well, I guess I grab it to try and pull it out.”
Shaking his head, Mustard slid into an empty seat.
“But that doesn’t mean we should rule it out.”
Mrs. White entered the room with a steaming teakettle. “That’s enough of this kind of talk. No one is going to speculate about anything until the authorities get here. The fact is, we don’t know what happened to poor Mr. Boddy. Maybe it was a suicide.”
Mustard rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to kill yourself, there are a lot easier ways to go about it than a knife in the heart.”
Everyone’s heads turned in his direction, and their expressions were all a mix of shock and disgust. He raised his hands defensively. “I said if.”
Way to make friends at your new school, Mustard.
But seriously. That Scarlett had obviously watched too many samurai movies or something. Who killed themselves like that? It seemed like such an . . . inconvenient way to do it. Why hadn’t he just gone out into the flood, or thrown himself off the side of the ravine, or—
“How are we going to contact the authorities?” asked Karlee. “The power’s still out.”
“Are there police in Rocky Point?” Finn asked. “Or . . . um . . . deputies?”
Vaughn looked amused. “You’ve never gone to the village, have you?”
“Why would we do that, townie?” Scarlett snapped.
“Well then, we’ll have to contact the mainland.” Mustard looked at Rusty. “Do you have a ham radio or a scanner or something?”
“Not out here,” said Rusty gruffly.
“They’ll have one in Rocky Point,” Vaughn offered. “When the waters recede a bit more I can try to get over the ravine to the village and see what the situation is. The road to the mainland is washed out, but the cops have boats.”
Orchid arrived in the hall. She must have showered, despite the cold. Mustard supposed he would do the same, if the alternative was having a dead man’s blood on his hands. Her hair was wet, scraped back from her face, and her glasses were back on, crookedly hanging off her nose. Wordlessly, she took a seat at the table and crossed her arms, staring unseeingly at some spot in her lap. Her hands were buried inside the cuffs of her giant sweater, and her lips were pressed into a thin line.
Rusty spoke up at last. “My money’s on the authorities being up to their ears in rescue missions.” His tone was low and even-keeled, which would have struck Mustard as strange if he hadn’t been every bit as monotone last night, talking with Headmaster Boddy about the devastation the flood had wrought on the campus. Mustard remembered listening as the two men discussed the rising waters to the tune of Vaughn’s guitar strumming. They’d gone over gas lines and electrical issues dispassionately—Rusty a soldier reporting a reconnaissance, and Boddy a calculating general, able to keep calm in the face of a brutal attack. A scientist reviewing difficulties within the parameters of an experiment.
Mustard had found it soothing actually. The adults seemed to have everything under control.
Only, it had all somehow been a lie.
Rusty clucked his tongue. “A lot of people spent the nights in their attics, with this flood. Not everyone’s got their cushy little mansions.”
“Yeah, but we’re the ones with a dead body on our hands,” Scarlett insisted.
“It’s not an emergency, though,” said Plum, patting his girlfriend’s hand.
She snatched it away. “Not an emergency for whom? The headmaster of one of the most elite schools on the Eastern Seaboard was just found dead, in a blizzard, in a house filled with his own students. This is going on the nightly news.”
Orchid’s head shot up. “No. You don’t really think that?”
“Oh, I definitely think that,” said Scarlett. “It’s going to be a huge scandal. And that’s why we need to not only get in touch with the authorities, but we’re also going to need to call our parents. With any luck, they can keep our names out of this mess.”
Karlee started crying again. Or maybe it was Kayla. Mustard still wasn’t entirely sure who was who.
Mrs. White cleared her throat. “All right. Enough of this speculation. Does anyone want more tea?”
No one did. One of the Karlee-or-Kaylas burst into tears and ran from the room, and the other one followed. Now, there was the girly response all the movies he’d ever seen had trained him to look out for. Still, it was only one out of the six of them. Maybe she was also trying to live up to movie expectations.
Peacock, for comparison, had barely looked up from her little blue notebook the whole time.
Also, if Mustard was honest with himself, he kind of felt like crying, too, and he’d barely known the man.
Mustard remembered the last conversation he’d ever had with the headmaster, in which Boddy had promised to contact Mustard’s father and convince him to allow changes to Mustard’s curriculum. At the time, Mustard had hoped for anything that might prevent that from happening. He hadn’t anticipated it would be death.
All of a sudden, he understood why Scarlett might want to believe it had been a suicide, as unlikely as it sounded. Because . . . What was the alternative?
A murder, that was what.
Mustard looked around the table at the others as if with fresh eyes. Just last night, they’d all been eating vegetable soup, drinking hot cocoa, laughing and chatting and singing before the fire. At ease, despite the storm raging all around them.
Just last night, he and the headmaster had been standing together in the hall, talking about Mustard’s class schedule, as if Boddy expected everything to be back to normal by the time the school opened next term, flood or no flood. But nothing would be normal, no matter how much tea Mrs. White poured.
He looked at Vaughn. “If you think you can make it back to the village, it’s worth a try.”
Vaughn nodded sagely.
“No you don’t, young man,” said Mrs. White. “The last thing we need is another accident on our hands.”
“An accident?” Mustard echoed.
“A death,” Mrs. White clarified. “It’s dangerous out there. How is he going to manage to get across the ravine?”
“I have a boat,” Rusty cut in. “I brought it up yesterday, ’case the flooding got worse than we could manage. Thought it might come in handy. It�
�s out back.”
“Can you navigate the ravine?” Scarlett asked.
Rusty shrugged. “Ayuh. Safe as being here.”
Another hush stole over the table. Mustard couldn’t help but think it was the smartest thing anyone had said all morning. If Headmaster Boddy had been killed, then someone had killed him.
Someone sitting at this very table.
“There, Mrs. White,” said Vaughn. “Rusty and I will take the boat to the village and try to contact the police on the mainland.”
Mrs. White pursed her lips. “I’m not sure we should have people leaving the house.”
Mustard had to agree. After all, they were all suspects in a homicide.
“The storm is still very dangerous.”
Right. That, too. Besides, how would the cops even know there was a homicide to investigate unless someone went to contact them?
“I don’t know what other options we have,” Mrs. White said at last, and since he supposed she was the one in charge now, that seemed to put an end to the matter. “Though I wouldn’t get your hopes up, Vaughn. Like Rusty said, they’ve got a lot of real emergencies on their hands.”
A murder, thought Mustard, definitely ranked as an emergency.
Soon after, Vaughn and Rusty set out in the rowboat to see if they could cross the ravine and get into the village. No one else wanted to brave the elements, but that left all of them in the house with nothing to do. Whatever easy camaraderie had coalesced the previous evening was completely gone. It wasn’t as if they could sing songs or braid hair with a dead body wrapped up in the conservatory and suspicion and fear hanging heavier than the clouds in the sky.
Mustard wished he knew anyone in this house well enough to share his thoughts with. Frankly, any of them might be a killer, and how would he know? Or maybe they’d sent the killers off already, scot-free in their getaway rowboat.
Not much comfort in that thought.
Orchid helped Mrs. White clean up the tea things, and Peacock opted to burn off some energy by jogging up and down the stairs in the hall. Scarlett and Plum disappeared to do—well, whatever it was they did alone together. Mustard still wasn’t entirely sure what was meant by a platonic power couple. Co-ed schools were weird.
In the Hall with the Knife Page 7
