"She told me, sort of," I added lamely.
"But the serial killer could be anywhere."
"I believe she was killed by someone who knew her, then doctored the crime to make it look like part of the series."
He was silent for a long moment, spinning the tennis racket in his hand. "That's why you were searching my room. You think I'm involved."
"I think more than one person is involved and that more than one person knows something."
"I can't believe you'd think that I—"
"I have to. I can't trust anyone."
"including Brian?" he prodded.
"Until I know more, everyone is a suspect, everyone but Liza and me."
Chapter 17
I left Mike beating balls against the wall and returned to Drama House. The common room was air-conditioned, but after washing my face, I chose the quiet and drowsy warmth of my own room.
I set my alarm, hoping to nap, but I couldn't fall asleep. My mind was restless, full of questions and suspicions, flicking from one theory to the next, as if I were clicking buttons on an Internet site. Uncle Louie, I remembered suddenly, and opened my laptop to check my e-mail.
His reply to my letter came up on the screen. It was typical Uncle Louie.
Greetings, my most beautiful goddaughter!
What a pleasure to hear from you—even if it was not to invite me to the camp performance. I could make all kinds of pleasant chitchat here, but as I know that you are a young lady who keeps to a schedule, let me hasten to the question at hand, the history of Walker Burke.
I cannot be entirely negative toward Walker; after all, he did give Broadway the finest star we have today, inviting your father to America. Walker offered your father his first role in New York, and it was quite a nice showcase for his talents. He found him his second job as well.
The problem with Walker was that even as the years went by and your father's skills far exceeded any opportunities Walker had given him, he felt your father owed him. Perhaps your father felt so, too, for he agreed to star in a new play, a script and production about which I had many doubts. To begin with, the producer was in love with the writer—you know how romance clouds the vision—and he was desperate to please her. Meanwhile, Walker was desperate to establish himself as a Broadway director. He even put in some money of his own—not much by theater standards, but probably his life savings, given his status at that point.
I believe your father knew the play was a dud wel before previews. Opening night reviews ran from mediocre to bad. Nevertheless, Lee performed for another two weeks, and because of his name, they brought in a full house each night. Walker, the writer, and the producer were quite pleased with the production; not so your father, who dropped out the third week. The play sank faster than the Titanic.
Walker, having lost his money and his reputation, was furious and blamed everything on your father. Eventually he left New York and, apparently, beached in Maryland. Too bad he can't let go of the past; old grudges and bitterness always hurt the individual more than the one whom he believes injured him.
So ends today's lesson. (What a dutiful godfather I am, not only answering your question but imparting that last bit of wisdom!) I hope you are finding the camp enjoyable, and I know you are finding it challenging. I am inexpressibly proud of you for taking this on, knowing your reluctance in the past.
Do let this old man know when the performance will be.
Love,
Uncle Louie
I leaned back against the slats of my desk chair, thinking about Walker, realizing that he had plenty reason to hate my father. Uncle Louie told the story from his perspective, the same perspective as my father's, but if I imagined Brian with all his ambition working to make it in L.A., or Mike with his intense love for theater struggling to make it in New York, I could easily understand how Walker had felt. His big chance had come, the theater was full every night, then the whole thing came crashing down. Years of dreams and effort ended with my father's one decision.
Uncle Louie was right about a grudge hurting the one who bore it, but it didn't always hurt that person more—not if he acted on it, not if he suddenly got a chance to lash out at someone close to the person he begrudged—say someone as close as a child.
The Merchant of Venice was the film being shown that night. Usually, Lawrence Olivier mesmerized me, but tonight Walker held my attention. I watched him out of the comer of my eye, trying to tell if he was absorbed in the movie or simply sitting through it. At eight-thirty, with another forty-five minutes of film to go, I headed to the ladies' room and continued out the door of the Student Union. My plan was to search Walker's files and return to the darkened auditorium just before the final credits.
I wasn't sure what I was looking for, but I planned to start with student files—mine and, if he still had it, Liza's, as well as anything he kept on Paul, Keri, Mike, and Brian. One little notation made by Walker or one tiny fact from a person's application might shed light on how he or someone else could have the mind and the means to kill my sister.
The back entrance of Stoddard was open as usual. I wondered what time campus security locked the building for the night. I'd have a lot of explaining to do if an officer caught me. I walked silently down the hall toward Walker's office, turned the comer, and tried his door. It was locked.
On to Plan B, the window, I thought, and exited the building as quietly as I'd come. Since Walker's office was at the comer, its ground-level windows would be the first set facing the quadrangle. It was an exposed area, but it was nearly dark now, just a glimmer of mauve showing in the western sky, and Stoddard's outside lights were clustered at its front and back entrances. With all the campers in the Student Union, the quad was deserted.
Then I noticed light coming from a window the next office down—Maggie's. She hadn't been at the movie, and I had hoped that Walker, realizing that she was working too hard, had given her the evening off. Maybe I could tell her I'd left something in Walker's office and ask her to let me in, I thought. But that wouldn't give me enough time to search. I turned back to Walker's window.
It was paned and half the height of a normal window, its lower sill even with the grass. Gently but firmly I pushed up against the cross braces. The window slid open. I pulled off my shoes, squeezed through, and dropped four feet down to the floor. After shutting the window I pulled the blinds and turned on a desk lamp, figuring that its light would be dimmer than the overhead and draw less attention. I set my shoes by the window so I wouldn't forget them.
There were two large file cabinets in Walker's office. I tiptoed to them and tried one, then the other, but both were locked. I remembered that during the day Walker carried a ring of keys, but used a single key attached to a small leather pouch to open his office. I figured he kept his collection of theater keys here at work and glanced around the room—files, bookcases, pots with dead plants, another bookcase, a cluttered desk. I tried the desk drawers. In the bottom one I found the ring of keys.
It occurred to me that this was how Paul and Keri had gotten into the tower. Walker was always tossing the ring down somewhere. It wouldn't be hard to slip off a key and get it duplicated at a hardware store. Gradually a person could gain access to all kinds of rooms and storage places in the theater, which would be very helpful if one were haunting it.
It didn't take long to figure out which of the slender keys on the ring fitted the locks of the file cabinets. I eased open the top drawer of one and found a set of binders—prompt books for plays Walker had directed in the past. The next drawer down had student records. I tabbed through them, but they were files for students who attended the college, not summer camp. The drawer below that had teaching materials, exams and syl abi. I knelt on the floor to look at the files in the bottom drawer.
The folders contained a curious hodgepodge of stuff, technical drawings of the stage and light equipment, old costume catalogs, old scripts, warranties for coffeepots, hair dryers, and drills, and, at the back of the
cabinet, a file without a label. I opened it with one finger, just enough to glance at its contents—newspaper articles. bridge killer strikes again a headline read. I plucked out the file and opened it.
The clipping on top was an account of the murder that had occurred in South Carolina, two months after the one in Florida. Filed behind it were shorter articles that had been gathered off the Internet, reports on both the first and second murder. There were a dozen articles about the third killing, the one in Virginia, which confirmed the police's fear that they had a serial murderer on their hands. In all of the articles certain details, like the smashed watches, the position of the bodies under the bridges, and the condition of the victims' clothes were highlighted in yellow, along with various theories about the kind of person who would do something like this. There was nothing about my sister's murder or the one in New Jersey; all the information Walker had wanted was gathered before she died.
I slipped the file under my arm. It proved nothing more than an unusual interest in learning the details and style of these murders; still, it was something to show the police, who were unlikely to believe a teen's visions.
I checked the files in the next cabinet and found this year's campers near the bottom. In mine there was nothing but my application form, essays, and recommendations. I hunted for Paul's, then glanced at my watch and realized that in trying to be quiet I had used up a lot of time. I wanted to get back to the movie before the lights came on. I closed the final drawer and stood up quickly, carelessly knocking over a wastebasket. In the silence of the building the roll of the metal basket sounded like crashing cymbals. I wondered whether to lie low or rush to the window. If Maggie looked out hers, she might catch me climbing out. I clicked off the lamp.
"Walker?" Maggie called. "Is that you?"
I flattened myself against the wall, not sure what could be seen through the frosted glass. I heard her footsteps approaching. "Walker?"
I figured it would be easier to explain my presence to her than to security. But then, security was so lax around here, it might take an officer forever to get here. Better to go through the window, I thought. Then I heard keys rattling on the other side of the door and knew Maggie was about to open it. I did instead.
"Jenny!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
She looked tired, not just in her eyes but in the sag of her shoulders.
"I was looking for something."
"What?" she asked, clicking on the overhead light, eyeing the folder tucked under my arm.
I opened the file for her. "I found this in Walker's cabinet. Look—these are articles about the serial killings, the first three, not the one that happened last year. Why would he have something like this?"
She took the folder from me and paged slowly through the articles. "Probably because he wants to try dinner theater next spring, to stage one of those popular murder mysteries that involve the audience. Walker always does research, collecting details from nonfiction accounts of whatever subject or historical period is being dealt with in a play."
I bit my lip. I wasn't convinced.
"Now, Jenny, I have a question for you. Why are you sneaking around in here?"
"I've got a good reason," I said, then paused, trying to decide how much to tell her and where to begin.
"I' m waiting."
"It's complicated."
She glanced at her watch, then handed me the folder. "Put this back where you found it and come to my office. We'll walk over to the Student Union, and you can explain on the way."
I returned the folder to the cabinet, picked up the trash can, and slipped on my shoes. When I rejoined Maggie, I found her standing next to a bookcase, leaning on it, her head in her hands.
"Maggie, are you all right?"
Her head lifted quickly. "Yes, fine."
"You don't look fine," I observed.
She walked over to her desk and sat down wearily. "I'm just hungry. I haven't eaten all day. And I'm a bit down," she admitted.
"You work too many hours," I said. "You need more time for yourself. You can't always be worrying about drama camp."
"My work is my relief," she replied. "If that was all I had to deal with, my life would be wonderful."
"What do you mean?"
She fidgeted with her scarf. "I've discovered that Brian is lying to me."
"About what?" I asked.
"It's a serious matter, not one I can discuss with you."
Was this about the pranks, I wondered, or was there something more going on?
Maggie leaned forward on her desk, resting her face on her hands. She looked gray.
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
"No. Why don't you run ahead. We'll talk later."
"I'll get you something to eat," I offered. "They're serving sandwiches after the movie. I'll get one and be right back."
She glanced up at me, rubbing her mouth against her knuckle.
"Just rest here, okay? I'll be back," I told her, hurrying out of her office before she could protest. When I reached the Student Union, the movie had ended and kids were picking up sandwiches. Brian was talking to Walker, both of them laughing over something Brian had said.
I knew that Maggie was a worrier and, at the moment, exhausted. When people are tired, problems and fears become exaggerated. But what if Brian wasn't trustworthy? What if he leaked my identity and my purpose for being here? I remembered his description of the way people worked: in the end, everyone is out for himself, he had said, and sometimes that makes people seem for you, and sometimes it makes them seem against you.
"Where did you go, Jenny?"
I jumped and Tomas looked at me curiously. "Didn't mean to scare you," he said. He had two large sandwiches on his plate.
"I was at Stoddard talking to Maggie. She's pretty upset, Tomas, and hasn't eaten all day. May I have one of your sandwiches to take back to her?"
"Sure. Want me to come with you?"
"No."
He handed me the paper plate with the untouched sandwich. "People keep disappearing," he said. "You, Mike, Paul."
I glanced around. "Did Mike and Paul come back?"
"Haven't seen them. I can't figure out why Walker isn't saying anything about it."
Perhaps, I thought, because the two of them were doing something for him.
"Maybe because he leaves that kind of stuff to Maggie," I said aloud. "She's waiting for me back at her office. Catch up with you later, okay?"
Tomas looked puzzled. "Okay."
I hurried back to the theater and let myself in the back door. When I reached Maggie's office, both her door and Walker's were closed, but her light was still on.
"Just me," I said, tapping lightly on the glass.
She didn't respond to my voice or to a harder knock, so I opened the door. She was gone. I walked over to her desk to set down her food and saw a note lying on the seat of her chair. I picked it up to read.
I'm sorry, Brian. I can't go on.
I can't try anymore.
My will is with the lawyer.
Everything should be in order.
I stared at the short sentences, their meaning sinking in slowly. It was a suicide note.
"Maggie?" I called. "Maggie!"
I rushed out of her office, then stopped, not knowing which way to turn. There were too many rooms in this place for me to check them all quickly. And she might not even be in the building. Get Brian, I thought. No, call security to get people to search the building and send the police to her house.
I turned back to make the calls, then spotted her scarf on the floor, halfway down the hall. I noticed the door at the far end was open. The tower door! I ran toward it, hoping I wouldn't be too late.
Chapter 18
Maggie!" I shouted from the bottom of the iron stairs. "Maggie, I have to talk to you!"
I thought I heard movement far above me and hurried up the steps. "Maggie, listen to me. Things will get better. I'll help you. I'll find someone who knows how to
help you."
I climbed as fast as I could, turning every five steps to rush up the next five, panicking that I wouldn't get there in time. I was out of breath from calling to her. It seemed as if I'd climbed a hundred stories. Just four, I told myself, the four stories of Stoddard. Then the walls began to narrow. I figured I was entering the top of the brick portion of the tower, the area with the shingled roof that was surmounted by the clock.
The stairs became a spiral here, worming their way up through the shrinking space, then on through an area with narrow platforms and square casements containing the clockworks, one facing each direction. The triangular steps were difficult to climb, so narrow on the inside, my feet slipped off. The spiral became a simple ladder to a trapdoor. It was dark, but I felt a splash of night air coming from above. I climbed through the open door and found myself in a space like a covered porch, enclosed by three-foot walls with a pillar at each corner and a roof.
Maggie was sitting sideways inside one of the four bays, her feet drawn up on the sill, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her body shook. I was sure she heard me, but she kept her head turned away from me. If she rolled to the right, she would fall six stories.
"Maggie," I said softly, "I saw your note."
She turned her head jerkily. In the darkness the pupils of her eyes were large. Her mouth trembled.
The tower was no more than five feet across, but I was afraid to move toward her too quickly. If I reached for her suddenly, she might panic and fall.
"I can help you."
"You?" The laughter that spilled from her jangled out of tune.
"I'll find someone to help. Let's go down now."
"No one can help me," she said, her voice pitching high. "I can never get back what I've lost!"
"You mean Brian? You mean your trust in him?"
She laughed again, and this time it was my nerves that jangled. Something was terribly wrong.
"tell me what's going on," I persisted. "tell me and maybe I can figure a way—"
"There is no way out for you."
I replayed her disquieting words in my head, confused.